


Ficlets

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Schitt's Creek, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chapters Vary - Freeform, M/M, read chapter tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:55:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 19,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25747015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: For PaiaLovesPie.Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; Missed Connection; Rated G.So close, and yet so far...
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 195
Kudos: 195





	1. Almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For PaiaLovesPie.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; Missed Connection; Rated G.  
> So close, and yet so far...

_Baker Street, Wednesday 9.14am_

Why did he still do this? Greg stood under the cover of the little coffee shop, wishing he didn’t have cigarettes in his pocket, irrationally glad he did. Sherlock was infuriating as always, yet Greg still found some reason to come over and check on him. Every bloody week, and never even a thank you.

“Might I trouble you for a cigarette?”

The man was so _right_ , Greg froze. Tall, pale, redheaded; and with a suit and voice posh enough to set Greg’s heart racing.

Which it already had.

+++

Living at the mercy of his brother’s whims was wearing thin, and if Mycroft was not concerned about his brother he would stop coming altogether. Sherlock’s refusal to see him smarted; he barely looked at the man except to notice he was smoking. A few quiet words, and all thought of his brother melted away. Instead his consciousness was filled with silver hair and warm brown eyes.

_Astonishing…_

Before he could do more than nod thanks at the kindness, Mycroft felt his phone buzz and the spell was broken. As the car pulled from the curb, Mycroft had a nagging feeling he was leaving something behind.

_Starbucks, Friday 6.41am_

“Grande Americano,” Greg ordered.

“What name, sugar?”

She was flirting, that much was clear, but Greg couldn’t bring himself to return her attention. His mind was still on the redhead from Baker Street.

“Greg,” he said absently. As he stepped away to wait for his drink, his phone rang and he was grateful for the distraction.

The barista’s phone number on the side of his coffee cup didn’t even make him smile. It wasn’t that kind of a day.

+++

“Good Lord,” Mycroft muttered, staring at the storefront in dismay. “Are there really no other options?”

“Vicente insisted,” Anthea said quietly. “A deliberately unpredictable location.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. He paused for several long breaths, looking at Anthea. An irrational desire – to sit somewhere quiet with someone special – passed through him borne on a brown-eyed, silver-haired form.

_Carringdale Road, 2.51am_

Greg groaned as the cab passed him. He was blocks from home, and the light rain would soak through before he reached the nearest tube station. Christ, he was tired. What he wouldn’t give for someone to offer him a lift. The street was empty, so he turned for home.

+++

Mycroft stifled a yawn, mortified his body was betraying him in such a manner. Lord, he was tired. As he glanced across the leather seat, the car felt bigger and emptier than usual. What he wouldn’t give for someone to ride with him. Relenting, he rubbed his eyes, leaning as the car turned towards home.

_Carringdale Road & Atherton Street, 2.52am_

Heart pounding, Greg stopped, blinking at the car that had almost run him over. He was so tired he hadn’t even looked as he crossed the road. Slowly, a back window rolled down. Greg was so tired, seeing the redhead blinking back at him wasn’t even a surprise.

“Hello,” he said quietly.

“Might I offer you a lift?”

Greg smiled. “Please.”


	2. Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For LadyTuesday.  
> John Watson and Sherlock Holmes; Parentlock; Rated G

John sighed, then smiled reflexively as the last of their guests mouthed, ‘goodbye’ on their way out. Rosie was asleep, head heavy against his shoulder, no doubt smearing the last chocolatey remnants of her birthday cake across his shirt.

It had been a party to remember, that was for sure. It was surprising how genuinely Sherlock had embraced the concept, leaning well into the curve of balloon animals and simple magic tricks. Most of the guests were John’s colleagues, some people Sherlock knew, plus Mrs. Hudson and a couple of her friends. There was enough alcohol to relax everyone and enough party food to soak it up before people left. John suspected Sherlock had completed some fairly complex equations to figure out the exact amount of food and drink to provide.

If he didn’t know Sherlock so well, he’d have thought it was strange. As it was, he knew it was Sherlock’s way of caring about the party. About Rosie. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the depth of that attention; the sideways glances Sherlock threw at him as he practiced his new skills were a shade too anxious to be entirely about how a two year old would receive his wonky balloon giraffe.

When the last of the guests left, the stillness in the flat still rang with the echoes of their revelry. Sherlock and John met each other’s eyes, and John felt his heart pulse as he saw the slight smile of satisfaction on Sherlock’s mouth.

“I’ll put her down,” John murmured now, cutting off his thoughts before they became too...well.

“Certainly,” Sherlock replied. He was sprawled in his chair, eyes dark from across the dimly lit room. He made no move to get up, so John turned, carefully climbing the stairs to the bedroom he shared with Rosie. It felt like he’d barely seen her all night, so he sat in their armchair, settling her against his chest when she stirred, pressing into his neck. These moments were few and far between at the moment. All the extra hours he’d been working, hoping to save enough that they might get a little flat of their own. Sherlock was easier to live with than John had feared when he brought the baby home, but it still was far from ideal.

And besides, John wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep himself in check. With everything they’d shared, the hope of something more still burned brightly, not fading with time but coalescing, the desire as deep as it always had been. For a long time he’d convinced himself Sherlock wouldn’t want a personal relationship with anyone at all; John had seen no evidence he was interested, let alone able to do so. But watching him change to accommodate Rosie had eased the uncertainty John had always hidden behind, and now the reasons why not were barely enough to convince himself it was a bad idea.

Rosie shifted in her sleep, and John pulled himself away from his thoughts, concentrating on her weight. He found himself matching her breathing, deep and regular, and when Sherlock appeared in the doorway it was hard to tell if he was real or not. The light from the landing made his expression unreadable, and John simply blinked at him, wondering why he was here. He rarely climbed the stairs. Why now?

“I didn’t say goodnight to Rosie,” Sherlock said quietly, still standing outside of the bedroom.

John realised he was waiting for an invitation in. A year ago that would have been a miracle, he thought dimly. He opened his mouth, pausing to clear his throat before he spoke quietly, mindful of Rosie so close.

“Come in, Sherlock.”

He hesitated for a second, as though considering John’s words before he stepped over the threshold into John and Rosie’s bedroom. It was something John had noticed lately, the moment of thought before action that would have been unrecognisable in Sherlock when they first met.

_So many things have changed since then._

Sherlock walked carefully the few steps over to John, eyes watching as Rosie’s chest rose and fell. His hand reached out to rest on her back. It looked even bigger as it settled, fingers splayed wide enough to bridge the space between her neck and waist with ease. In the moonlight through the window, John could see the slight curl of his fingers into Rosie’s spine. Protective, even when she was sleeping here.

John couldn’t take his eyes from it, aware of the intimate scene they must make. Anyone watching would make the assumption they were a family. He knew he and Sherlock were easily mistaken for a couple – it happened often enough, especially when Rosie was with them. John always justified it to himself that with him and Sherlock both doting so obviously on Rosie, of course people would think some of it was directed at each other, as well.

Now, in the quiet room, the truth was less confronting. It crept in quietly, and John allowed it to settle on his shoulders. As he looked up at Sherlock, eyes straining to see the details he knew better than his own face, John wondered if the same truth was what made Sherlock pause sometimes, changing his reactions to keep it hidden. Before, he would have been relieved they didn’t have to address it.

Right now, Rosie lying quietly between then felt like a bridge. Perhaps she was permission to acknowledge how they’d changed. How their relationship had changed. John certainly wouldn’t have considered how he felt about Sherlock as closely, had Rosie not come along. And now they were here, in his bedroom posed for all the world like a happy family. Sherlock would certainly never have gone to such effort for anyone else, John thought as he sat quietly, wondering what Sherlock would say to Rosie.

The silence held as Sherlock bent down, his curls shifting to cover his expression as he kissed Rosie on the temple.

“Goodnight, little bee,” he murmured. “I hope you enjoyed your birthday party.”

John realised he was holding his breath when he tried to gasp but couldn’t. Sherlock had raised his head from Rosie’s, still only a breath from her skin but now his eyes were locked on John’s. The moonlight splashed across his face, lighting his expression so John could read it without a second’s pause.

It was more vulnerable than John could remember seeing, uncertain and longing and a kind of weary pain that only came from denying oneself for such a long time.

Like recognises like, he thought to himself.

Without thinking, John raised his hand from Rosie’s neck, instead curing it to the shape of Sherlock’s, fingers pushing through the hair at the base of his skull. He didn’t exert any pressure; as the gap closed it was all Sherlock, until their lips met over the top of Rosie’s head, as understated a moment as John could have imagined. Neither moved, John conscious of Rosie so close, and he wondered if that was Sherlock’s motivation too.

When they eased apart, the world had not stopped turning, so far as John could see. In fact, all he could see was Sherlock, eyes wide only inches away, searching his face. John tried for a smile, hoping it was reassuring, feeling his fingers curl into Sherlock’s scalp at the same time.

Sherlock didn’t move.

“I should put Rosie down,” John murmured. When Sherlock started and made to pull away, John did not relax his fingers, stuck in Sherlock’s hair. “Don’t go,” he whispered.

Sherlock nodded, a sharp jerk before John relaxed his fingers. Sherlock stood up, standing back as John eased himself up, hoping not to wake Rosie. She was well asleep; not even a murmur as John laid her in her cot, stuffed bunny within reach. He fussed a little, taking a second to right himself as he smoothed her blanket.

When he turned back, Sherlock was standing in the exact same place. He looked as though he was bracing for bad news. John’s head raced as he tried to figure out what words would be right. He had to find the right combination to convince Sherlock… And yet the quiet had served them so well, John couldn’t bear to break it.

Instead he took two steps forwards and reached out, taking Sherlock’s hand in his. When the long fingers curled around his John breathed a sigh of relief. Without another word they walked downstairs together, footsteps loud. The detritus of the party lay all over the flat but John only noticed enough to avoid stepping on any dropped cupcakes or discarded plastic cups. They stopped in the middle of the sitting room and it felt right for John to step close, his chest brushing Sherlock’s.

“John?” Sherlock whispered.

“Thank you for arranging Rosie’s party,” John said. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, exactly, but it would ease them in the right direction.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied.

“She adores you,” John said.

“As I do her,” Sherlock replied, sounding nervous.

“So do I,” John added, his words overlapping Sherlock’s.

Sherlock froze. “You do?”

John smiled and nodded. It felt almost cliché, but he could feel his heart expand with affection as he watched Sherlock’s face open with wonder. “I do,” he murmured, only saying it to see the flush spread up Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Stay,” Sherlock blurted.

“What?” John said.

“I know you think there’s not space for us all here,” Sherlock pulled in a breath that made his chest heave, “but there could be. There could be…” his voice trailed off.

“Okay,” John said automatically.

“Okay?” Sherlock whispered.

“Okay,” John repeated.

“Okay,” Sherlock said, the wonder of acceptance finally ringing through.

John smiled into the kiss into which they finally melted. The few quiet words had been the perfect beginning, and now John could imagine nothing more okay in the whole world.


	3. Both

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For brooklyn09.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; Established Relationship; Rated G.  
> Greg loves their quiet moments stolen in the night.

The phone woke them, Greg rolling left and Mycroft right automatically in the dark.

“Yes?”

“H’lo?”

Usually this was where one of them dropped their phone, realising it was the other that had disturbed their slumber. Tonight they were both listening; as Greg met Mycroft’s eyes, both blurry from sleep, he couldn’t help the smile pulling at his mouth. Annoying as it was to be woken, these few minutes were always quiet and golden, when they were both pulled out of bed. They used to quote five minutes before their car would pick them up. At some point, they’d pushed it out, relishing the private, shared time that might be the last together in a while.

“Yeah, ten minutes,” Greg said, punching the end call button.

“Ten minutes,” Mycroft echoed, ending his own call.

Greg stretched, joints stiff after the few hours’ sleep. Mycroft had placed his phone on the bedside table, and Greg’s heart turned over when instead of getting up, he turned an affectionate smile at Greg instead. This was the Mycroft nobody else was allowed to see. Just for him.

“Baker Street?” Greg asked casually, drinking in the view.

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured. He drew a breath but Greg spoke first, rolling to press their bodies together. Mycroft was warm and soft, as Greg knew he would be. The smile was always a little exasperated, and Greg pulled it into himself.

“No,” he whispered, pressing his smile into Mycroft’s neck. “No apologies, not for Sherlock.”

Mycroft groaned, wrapping one arm around Greg’s waist. “He is difficult,” Mycroft protested, though he stretched, allowing Greg more access to his neck. “And we must go.”

“He is,” Greg replied, his words brushing Mycroft’s skin. “And yet I love you anyway.”

Mycroft groaned, and they lost several minutes pressed together in the quiet. Everyone else in the whole world was gone, excluded from the bubble Greg and Mycroft built around themselves. Greg loved this part the best, more than movie nights, late dinners or long distance phone calls. Other people had these moments. They didn’t have this. Not these

“I love you,” Greg whispered again, when they broke apart.

Mycroft huffed. “Hardly-”

“No no,” Greg interrupted. “We must go, remember?” He pressed one more kiss into warm skin before pulling back, ignoring the desire to remain close. “We’ll continue this when we get home.”

The eyebrow lifted, but Mycroft rolled out of bed, reaching for his suit. Greg watched for a second, the lines of Mycroft’s back familiar before it disappeared beneath a shirt. His fingers itched to unbutton it again, but he could be patient. The time would come.

“Three minutes,” Mycroft murmured without looking.

“Okay,” Greg replied, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was always cold, and he always winced. The fabric of his suit was cold against his skin but he knew they would meet back here again. Could be hours, especially with Sherlock involved, but he didn’t mind. Greg grinned to himself. It was worth dealing with Sherlock if it meant these late night moments with Mycroft.


	4. The Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For lizbetrx.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; Unexpected Meeting (Wedding); Rated G.

“Mycroft,” his name was said with no surprise, which was a surprise in itself.

_What are you doing here?_

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft replied, turning. Keep his face impassive even as his heart pounded hard against his ribs was difficult.

_He looks wonderful. Happy. Relaxed._

“It’s Greg, actually,” he replied with a smile.

“Of course,” Mycroft said automatically, shifting to allow someone past. When Greg followed him, Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat.

“For which of the brides are you here?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Greg asked, amusement in his tone.

“I do not,” Mycroft replied, disconcerted by the admission. “Should I?”

“Ah, you two found each other!”

“Hey,” Greg said, and to Mycroft’s astonishment, Anthea stepped up, kissing Greg on the cheek. “We were just talking about you.”

Clues clicked into place.

_He’s the brother._

“Congratulations,” he added to Anthea, who nodded her acknowledgement, the same amusement in her eyes as her brother’s.

_I never knew._

“She’s good, right?” Greg said with a grin, studying Mycroft’s reaction.

“Far better than I gave her credit for,” Mycroft murmured.

“Is this your boss?” the other bride appeared, smiling at Greg before turning to Mycroft. “I’m Sylvia.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” he confirmed, taking her outstretched hand. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you for your gift,” Sylvia said.

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured.

_What did I give them?_

“Ah, but this is not about what you have had for us,” Anthea said smoothly. As Mycroft watched, she shifted, moving Greg closer to Mycroft as she and Sylvia wound their hands together. “This is about what I have for you.” She looked at her brother. “For both of you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft asked.

“Since neither of you have brought a date,” Anthea said, “and we’re about to do our first dance with our families…”

She stopped, the music began, and Anthea raised her eyebrows in a challenge as she and Sylvia took the floor. Heart pounding over the specifics of the emcee’s announcement, Mycroft laid his hand in Greg’s outstretched palm. Warm fingers closed around his and they moved onto the dance floor together. A moment of panic before Greg laid Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder and moved close, his eyes never leaving Mycroft’s until they were swaying close together.

_Oh my word…_

“Is this okay?” Greg asked. His mouth was close to Mycroft’s ear, tickling his skin.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.

_Inadequate._

“Do you understand what Anthea said?” Greg asked quietly, moving to the music.

“Not entirely,” Mycroft lied. He knew why he would consider it a gift, this closeness with Gregory; how Anthea would know about it wasn’t entirely clear.

_Far better than I gave her credit for._

“I do,” Greg replied. They’d turned a long, slow circle before he added, “She knows I’ve had a thing for you for ages.”

Mycroft swallowed. He was hardly breathing, but this was a unique chance.

_Be brave._

“As I have for you,” he managed.

Greg did not speak, but the arms tightening around Mycroft’s body made it clear he’d heard.


	5. Scaredy-cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For saratonin.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; Pre-Slash; Rated G.

Mycroft froze, mortified such an old fear could rise so quickly in his usually controlled self. The evidence of his nemesis was clear; there was no way he could avoid it. He was only here for his brother. No way Sherlock would have passed up the opportunity to make Mycroft uncomfortable.

_Curse him…_

“Mycroft?” Detective Inspector Lestrade’s voice broke through his contained panic.

“Good evening,” Mycroft managed, though he could hear the thread of fear in his voice.

_Weak._

It must have been audible to the police officer, because after a pause Mycroft heard, “Are you alright?”

Blinking, he forced himself to turn his head. The chocolate eyes Mycroft saw in his dreams were real this time, concerned as they raked over his face.

_Kind._

“Yes thank you,” Mycroft replied automatically. He cleared this throat. “My brother was here?”

“As far as we can tell,” Detective Inspector Lestrade replied. “We think he was trying to help the woman living here.”

“Help her?” Mycroft repeated, but his further questions stuck in his throat as the source of his fear appeared, walking cautiously through the small courtyard, unimpressed with the interlopers. The sound was small but Mycroft felt it tear through him and he shuddered hard, closing his eyes against the revulsion.

“Mycroft?” The Detective Inspector said his name again, but this time Mycroft couldn’t force a response from his throat. To his mortification, Mycroft watched chocolate brown eyes flit between himself and the source of his terror. There was no way a trained observer would miss the connection.

Clenching his fingers around his umbrella, Mycroft closed his eyes. He swallowed, pushing down the panic. There were footsteps. Fabric against fabric, and Mycroft’s brain filled in the images his eyes couldn’t see.

_Bending down._

The murmur of someone speaking quietly.

_Low down…and now higher. Standing up. Moving away._

Footsteps, a door opening and closing, footsteps but muted.

_Walking inside. Why?_

Carefully, Mycroft opened his eyes, bracing for what he might see.

The courtyard was empty.

He breathed out, hating the tremors adrenalin shot through him. There was nobody here. As he looked around, the door opened again, Detective Inspector Lestrade stepping back out.

_He took the cat inside._

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft started, but he was interrupted.

“Greg,” he said. “When will you start calling me by my name?”

Mycroft blinked. “Now, if you wish,” he said.

“Since I just got rid of that cat for you, might be a good time for it,” Greg said.

Mycroft winced, knowing the heat in his cheeks would be visible as a fierce blush. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Bad experience?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “I do not wish to elaborate.”

“Of course,” Greg said. He hesitated, but finally added quietly, “I can’t stand enclosed spaces.”

Mycroft nodded, uncertain what Greg was hoping to get out of this shared admission of weakness.

“My brother,” Mycroft said. “He is aware of my…aversion to cats.”

“That’d be why we’re here then,” Greg said dryly. “Do you want to deal with Sherlock, or should I?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Mycroft said. He swallowed again, the tension in his body finally easing.

“You know, I’m more of a dog person,” Greg said suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft said. The expression in those dark brown eyes was almost…

“I mean,” Greg said, stepping closer, “if you wanted to come over for dinner, you wouldn’t have to worry.”

“Dinner?” Mycroft repeated, his mind stuttering to a stop.

“Yes,” Greg said. He looked nervous, but tentative affection poured from him anyway. “Tonight?”

“Tonight,” Mycroft whispered.


	6. Christmas Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Saratonin.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; Potterverse/Professors; G rated.

“Finally,” Greg murmured, settling back into his armchair and closing his eyes.

“The last students are gone?” Mycroft replied.

Greg could hear Mycroft moving from the window to his own seat. “First year I can remember everyone going home for Christmas break.”

“It is unusual,” Mycroft replied. “Firewhiskey?”

“Yes please,” Greg replied, opening his eyes. Mycroft sent the tumbler floating smoothly across the room and Greg plucked it out of the air. “Wow, Ogden’s gone out of the box with this one.”

“I believe he’s finally allowing his nephew some creative control,” Mycroft agreed. “With pleasing results.”

“Speaking of pleasing, we were talking about how all the students are gone,” Greg said. “Does that mean the castle is empty?”

“As empty as it might be,” Mycroft replied. “House elves, ghosts and staff notwithstanding.”

“But our responsibility to those creatures is minimal,” Greg said with a grin. He pulled out his wand, expanding his armchair into a small loveseat. “So we could relax a bit, right?”

“I believe so,” Mycroft replied. He rose, and a thrill rolled slowly through Greg as that magnificent body moved closer, tucking itself into the space beside him. “You might have allowed me more room, Gregory.”

“But then you’d be further away,” Greg grinned as they settled together. He sighed, breathing in the scent of his favourite professor. “I’m so glad you’re not teaching potions this year. You smell much better.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. “Minerva was reluctant to relinquish the Transfiguration classes, but she is far happier with her attention on the Magic Binds Us program.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “I mean, I know she’s a pretty liberal Headmistress, but hiring a house elf as a teacher?”

“As she pointed out,” Mycroft replied, sipping at his whiskey, “having a human teaching Diversity Studies does defeat the purpose somewhat. And I believe she intends to hire a range of non-human teachers with a view to offering a broader perspective. Given the changes in our world, I suspect she will be successful in convincing the Governors it is the right thing to do.”

“True,” Greg said.

They sat in silence for a while, the warmth of their bodies and the fire combining with the whiskey to make Greg quite drowsy.

“We’ll have to make an appearance at Christmas Dinner,” Mycroft mused. “Otherwise, I anticipate sleeping for a number of days.”

“You do, do you?” Greg asked. He Vanished their glasses, grinning as he waited for Mycroft’s startled gaze to meet his. “If you’re going to be in bed for that many hours I don’t think sleeping is all you’ll be doing, Professor.”

“Oh really,” Mycroft replied with a smile. “I suppose some sustenance will be required.”

“All sorted,” Greg told him. “I have a pile of mince pies, pumpkin juice and water.”

“Enough for several days?” Mycroft asked.

“Enough to get us started,” Greg replied. “And if we need more,” he waved his wand theatrically.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “For a wizard, you really are quite cavalier with your wand,” he said fondly.

“It’s my Muggle upbringing,” Greg said. “Not all of us grew up with a solid Pureblood background.” He winced as the flash of pain flared in Mycroft’s eyes, but before he could apologise Mycroft kissed him, hard enough to prevent him speaking but softening as soon as he stopped trying.

“We both know I am content with my life choices,” Mycroft said firmly. He kissed Greg again in case the point wasn’t clear. “And we also know my parents were dealing with the loss of three of their misguided dreams for me.”

“Grandchildren with a Pureblood wife,” Greg said, ticking off the three points.

“Wife was not one of the dreams,” Mycroft replied.

“It wasn’t?” Greg said, frowning. “Don’t tell me I’m a disappointment on yet another front.”

“I suppose the Sorting Hat might be as much to blame,” Mycroft mused, “but your being a Hufflepuff was just as much of a factor, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Greg said. “Well I figured that went without saying.”

Mycroft smiled, Greg’s relief mirrored in his own eyes.


	7. A Singularly Remarkable Creature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For PaiaLovesPie.  
> Inspired by tweets from Vulpesmellifera.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; First Meeting; G rated.

The first time, Mycroft was cautious. In his experience, few creatures erred on the side of friendly with an unknown human. He watched as the old dog stood patiently on the far side of his new garden gate, clearly expecting to be allowed in. The dog didn’t bark or scratch, and when Mycroft opened the gate, the mouth dropped open in what passed as a canine smile.

“Good morning,” Mycroft said, feeling foolish for addressing the dog but knowing it was unlikely he could be heard. The brick wall between his house and those either side were tall enough and the dog clearly expected a greeting.

The dog walked in slowly, a sideways glance at Mycroft all he spared before lumbering up the stairs and into the house. Amusement blossomed at his comfort in Mycroft’s new home. He was used to being admitted, and when he returned for a proper sniff, Mycroft was sitting down with his tea and toast. The weight of a head resting in his lap was comforting and Mycroft found himself murmuring quietly for the half hour they spent together.

By the time a week had passed, the routine was set. The dog was like clockwork, and Mycroft found himself accommodating the half hour he was required to be sitting on the front porch. The self-consciousness slipped away, and Mycroft was telling the dog the details of his day, his family, his new life here. Such a confidante was not something with which he had much experience, but this gentle patient being was changing his mind.

By the time the leaves started to turn, Mycroft was admitting his affection for the dog, and when he didn’t arrive one morning, the whole day felt wrong. He couldn’t concentrate; it nagged at his mind, pulling his eyes to the front gate at the expense of his concentration. When a week passed without the dog, Mycroft allowed himself a quiet memorial ceremony, sitting on the porch for the first time alone.

The air was clear and cooler than the bright sun would suggest; the heat of summer was gone, and with the air still a quiet sob was audible. Mycroft paused before easing his teacup back into its saucer. His first instinct was to return inside; other people’s emotions made him almost as uncomfortable as his own. But as another sob, this one louder, rent the air, Mycroft found himself standing, the squeak of the gate giving away his movement until he stood at an identical gate before the neighbouring house.

A man met his gaze and Mycroft noted silver hair and torn jeans, misery clear in every line of his face. He didn’t hide his tears, nor did he speak. Details answered unasked questions, and Mycroft immediately knew both where the dog had come from and where he had gone.

“My condolences for your loss,” Mycroft said, fingers gripping the iron gate. “He visited me every day. I wondered where he called home.”

The man nodded, unsurprised. “The guy who lived there before you had a collie,” he said. “They were friends.”

“He listened as I spoke,” Mycroft said. “A singularly remarkable creature, if you don’t mind my assessment as such.”

“No,” the man said. He blinked and his cheeks reddened. “I could hear you,” he blurted. “Not your words, just your tone. You sounded kind.”

Mycroft nodded, unused to such words. “It has become a habit,” he said. “Taking tea early in the morning.” He hesitated. “Perhaps you would join me?”

The man nodded, the misery lifting as his expression relaxed. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”


	8. Make A Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for LizbetRx.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; birthdays; G rated.

The office always felt different on quiet nights. When nothing was happening and people trickled out, Greg sometimes stayed. With home dark and cold, there was hardly an incentive to leave the office. At least here he might actually get something done.

Stretching, Greg glanced at the clock. It was pushing midnight, and though he’d deliberately kept a very low profile, the fact that twenty three hours and forty three minutes of his birthday had passed without a single soul noticing was still somewhat disheartening. Sally usually remembered, but she was pretty distracted at the moment, hoping to pass the Sergeant’s Exam at the end of the year. It had been irritating Greg on a low level for weeks, the kind of irrational response he knew was more about him than about her.

Today he was somewhat grateful.

His eyes lingered on the clock, the second hand suddenly loud.

_Sixteen minutes._

Shaking off the uneasy sense of disappointment, Greg headed out to the kitchenette. A cup of coffee would keep him going for another couple of hours, well into tomorrow. Another unremarkable day, special only because it was Friday and heralded the beginning of a weekend.

“Good evening, Detective Inspector.”

Greg didn’t quite drop his coffee, but it was a close thing. Mycroft had moved as silently as a shadow, so he’d more or less appeared by magic in Greg’s office. The late hour and surprise gave Greg time to look Mycroft over. He considered the extra second he allowed himself a birthday present. Mycroft looked as close to perfect as Greg could remember, standing in his pristine suit even at this late hour.

_He’s beautiful._

“Hi,” Greg replied quietly. He didn’t really know what Mycroft was doing in his office, but asking questions never yielded any results, so he waited.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Happy birthday,” he said, one hand waving awkwardly before him.

It was so unexpected Greg wasn’t quite sure what he meant until he followed the gesture.

On his desk, on a small plate sat a tiny, perfect dessert. The surface was glossy and Greg could see the layers, wrapped in some kind of plastic. It was the fanciest cake Greg had ever seen in his life.

_Did he bring that for me?_

“Thank you,” he said, shaping the words carefully. As he stared at it, emotion rose in his throat and Greg’s eyes found the clock again.

_Six minutes._

“I am deplorably late,” Mycroft said quietly.

“You’re the only one today,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded. He didn’t speak, but pulled a single candle from his pocket and lit it, setting the base in the centre of the cake. Greg stepped closer, holding Mycroft’s eyes until he leaned down. Pursing his lips and blowing out the small flame felt intimate for some reason, and he stood up, raising his eyes again.

“Make a wish,” Mycroft said quietly.

Without thinking, Greg moved around his desk, stopping a mere breath from Mycroft’s suit. He waited, counting _one one thousand-two one thousand-three one thousand_ in his head. Mycroft didn’t move, nor was he breathing; his eyes were trained on Greg, uncertainty locked behind steel resolve.

Leaning in, Greg’s fingers found the fabric of that pristine suit a second before his lips found Mycroft’s and he made his wish.

_Kiss me back._

Half a second later, as the long hand of the clock ticked over to meet the short hand at 12, Greg’s birthday wish came true.


	9. Pizza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For brooklyn09.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; Established Relationship; G rated.

Mycroft sighed dramatically, the kind of response at which Greg might have panicked a few months ago. Their relationship had deepened since then and now he recognised the drama overlaying a genuine irritation.

“I know you’d rather make pizza than order it,” Greg said, smiling into Mycroft’s eyes as he helped ease the coat off his shoulders. “But I only just got home myself, and it’s late and I’m starving.”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course,” he said. Greg allowed him a moment to remove his shoes, and Mycroft spoke again. “I just prefer our pizza.”

“I know,” Greg said soothingly.

Shoes were always the last thing, and Greg trailed after Mycroft as he padded into the wardrobe to put his shoes away. Things were still new enough for him to be amused by these little rituals while recognising how privileged he was to be allowed to witness them. As soon as Mycroft stood up Greg knew he was fair game, and he was waiting, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s waist, pressing close. He loved the second it always took Mycroft before he responded; they’d talked late one night and Mycroft admitted he was never quite sure if he should or not. The uncertainty broke Greg’s heart. Who the hell rejected someone’s comfort so often they stopped giving it?

Right now, they stood swaying together. Greg breathed Mycroft in, the scent far superior to the body odour and cheap perfume favoured by the witnesses he’d interviewed today. Another thrill at the familiarity and he pressed a smile into Mycroft’s jacket collar, slipping his hands inside to remove another layer. A grumble, but Mycroft shrugged, allowing his jacket to slide off.

“You want to hang this up?” Greg murmured. He stepped back with a grin, hanging the jacket from one finger.

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. He reached for a coat hanger, adding, “I trust you chose Antonio’s pizzeria this time.”

“I did,” Greg assured him. “After last time, I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.”

Mycroft adjusted the shoulders of his jacket again before turning to face Greg. His expression was trying to be stern, but the fond edge ruined the effect. “I should hope so,” he replied.

“It was pretty bad,” Greg conceded as they walked towards the kitchen. “Beer?”

“No thank you,” Mycroft said with a grimace. “Wine?”

“Nope,” Greg replied, raising his beer bottle. He sighed, watching Mycroft pour a glass of the red he’d opened the night before. “I love that we can do this.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft replied.

Greg grinned. “That you don’t feel like you have to drink beer and I don’t feel like I have to drink wine.” He watched as understanding blossomed across Mycroft’s face. “Remember that…what was it called?”

“Trilogi de La Pin Merlot,” Mycroft said immediately. He was studying Greg’s expression, too. “You did not appreciate the subtleties of that particular bottle, if I recall.”

“And you were horrified that I’d rather have a beer, if _I_ recall,” Greg replied.

“I was.”

“And that was the night we agreed to be more honest about that kind of thing,” Greg grinned. “And we both lived happily ever after.”

“Not quite ever after,” Mycroft said. “Not yet.”

The implication made Greg shiver, but before he could say anything there was a knock on the door. “Dinner’s here,” he said.

As they sat beside each other at the breakfast bar – Mycroft’s concession to casual dining – Greg nodded at the twin pizza boxes.

“Thank goodness for honesty,” he said. “Or I’d be eating that to be polite.”

“Once again we are in agreement,” Mycroft replied, turning up his nose at Greg’s selection.

Greg grinned around a piece of pizza. The more time they spent together the more Greg felt positive about the future.

_Happily ever after._


	10. Dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For PaiaLovesPie.  
> Mycroft Holmes/Gregory Lestrade; Blind Date; G rated.
> 
> From the prompt: "Mycroft is on a blind date set up by his co-worker. Halfway through a wonderful dinner, Mycroft and Greg realize they’ve both met the wrong blind date.  
> They decide to stay for dessert. 🍰"

Mycroft smiled, astonished he was so at ease. Anthea’s request had been unusual, but he had offered anything she might like as reward for her discretion with the latest Sherlock issue. Had Mycroft suspected she would send him on a blind date, he would have been more specific. It was too late this time, so Thursday night resulted in him presenting himself at La Luna, a mid-level restaurant in a part of London he did not frequent. At least she had the sense to offer him some sense of privacy in the matter.

Especially when Mycroft was seated at a table with a familiar face. Their conversation was awkward at first, and though Mycroft wondered how Gregory Lestrade knew Anthea, the conversation did not go in that direction and he resolved to find out at a later date. Both men made an effort and to Mycroft’s surprise, they bore similar interests but different enough opinions and experiences to allow conversation to flow easily. Entrees and mains completed, Mycroft would never normally contemplate dessert.

Gregory Lestrade was tempting beyond Mycroft’s experience, and he was wondering how long they might draw out their conversation.

“So,” Gregory said, and Mycroft’s heart fluttered at the tone, “I’ve been wanting to ask you something all night.”

“Please feel free to do so,” Mycroft replied. This felt flirtatious. Was it? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been involved in flirting.

“Well,” Greg said, “we seem to be getting on pretty well, but I can’t really figure out how you know Andrea.”

“Andrea?” Mycroft repeated. “I don’t believe I know anyone called Andrea.”

Greg frowned. “Andrea? You know, she set us up tonight.”

A cold hand ran down Mycroft’s back as he realised the error. “Andrea,” he whispered, before clearing his throat. “I understood this evening was arranged by Anthea.” He leaned on the pronunciation of the name. “I must apologise, my enunciation may not have been clear when I approached the maître d'.” Taking his napkin from his nap, Mycroft made to leave, heat flooding his cheeks as he avoided Gregory’s eyes.

“Wait,” Gregory said, and his hand appeared on Mycroft’s, stopping him. Slowly, Mycroft lowered himself to his chair. Taking a deep breath, he raised his eyes to Gregory’s once more.

_Is he amused?_

“It’s a pretty good story,” Gregory said, “and I’ve had a good time. So far.”

Mycroft blinked. “So far?” he said.

“Well yeah, I saw you read the dessert menu,” Gregory replied. “Were you really planning on leaving before you tried the lemon tart?”

“You noticed?” Mycroft said, annoyed at himself for asking.

Gregory smiled, his thumb rubbing once across Mycroft’s wrist before he withdrew his hand. “I did,” he replied. “It’s another thing we have in common.”

Mycroft nodded. The decision to reveal this small extra piece of himself was a little easier now that he knew Gregory had noticed something on his own. “I would not generally indulge,” he admitted.

“That’s interesting,” Gregory said. “How about we share a serve and you can explain why you’d normally deny yourself the thing you want most?”

Mycroft blinked, before sending an apology out to Anthea. Whomever she’d intended him to meet, this was far, far superior.

“Very well,” he agreed, with a sharp spike of what felt like reckless abandon.


	11. The Scariest Work Halloween Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Saratonin.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; Established Relationship; T rated.

“What do you mean, mandatory?” Greg didn’t realise he’d spoken out loud until the PC beside him replied.

“I know, great right?”

Greg didn’t say anything. Given how much he hated Halloween, this was not ‘great’. He wouldn’t use good, nice, okay, or even acceptable to describe this mandatory Halloween party. It was closer to his worst nightmare, actually, mainly because…no. He couldn’t have that thought here.

+++

“It’s mandatory, Mycroft!”

Mycroft blinked, hand still holding the beer he was about to open for Greg. “I understand,” he said, though his tone made it clear he did not.

_Jesus, I’m going to have to explain this to him._

“Mycroft, it’s a Halloween party,” Greg replied. “Costumes are expected.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Costumes!”

Twisting open the beer bottle, Mycroft still appeared unsure about why Greg was so upset. “Are you expecting me to make an appearance?” he hazarded.

Greg gritted his teeth, accepting the beer. “No,” he said, hating how defensive his voice sounded.

“I must admit I don’t understand,” Mycroft said. “Are you-”

“It’s the costumes,” Greg blurted, cutting across Mycroft. _Like a sticking plaster._ “I can’t…” he drew a deep breath, knowing this would be entirely mortifying. “They remind me of…”

Mycroft blinked, waiting for Greg to continue, but the innocent look on his face was a little too much.

“Fuck,” Greg muttered. “You know, don’t you,” he said, pouring half the bottle of beer down his throat and resenting deeply that it was not Scotch.

“Oh, I l believe I do,” Mycroft smirked. He put his wine glass down, milking the moment before he walked over to Greg. “It’s the costumes,” he parroted Greg.

“Exactly,” Greg said. He sighed, placing his beer bottle down to slid his hands onto Mycroft’s hips.

“And what is it about the costumes that is so distressing?” Mycroft asked, cupping Greg’s face so he would look up.

Greg sighed hoping his resigned expression was clear. Based on the smirk still dancing around Mycroft’s mouth, he was well aware of Greg’s internal anguish.

“You know exactly what the costumes remind me of,” Greg murmured, allowing his hands to shape Mycroft’s arse. “And as much as I might enjoy our forays into role play, it makes costume parties…difficult.” He squeezed Mycroft’s arse, enjoying the hum of enjoyment it elicited. “As you well know.”

“I may have suspected as much,” Mycroft replied, “however your confirmation is appreciated.” He smiled at Greg. “Are you concerned you’ll find someone else more attractive than me?”

“No,” Greg replied, sensing that genuine question under the amusement. “But seeing someone dressed the same as you have dressed will remind me.”

“Ah,” Mycroft purred. “So a room filled with,” he paused, waiting for Greg to fill in the answers.

“Jesus, you’re going to make me say it,” Greg muttered.

“Yes, I believe I am,” Mycroft replied.

“Fine, a room filled with,” Greg cast his mind to previous nights with Mycroft, “Frankenfurter, Hedwig, the vampire…”

He swallowed.

“The wolf, the flight instructor,” Mycroft added, his smirk growing.

“Fine,” Greg muttered, knowing Mycroft wouldn’t let it go. “The sexy police officers. It’s the sexy police officers. People always dress like that at work Halloween parties.”

“Sexy police officers,” Mycroft mused, shifting his body forward with enough pressure to make it clear the memories were affecting him too. “I’ll have to remember that’s the one you like best.”

“You’re the one I like best,” Greg murmured.

They kissed for a long time.

“So you’re going to get me out of the party?” Greg asked.

“No,” Mycroft replied, “but I’ll be waiting for you when you get home.”


	12. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Maria.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; Parents; G rated.

“Now?” Greg asked, glancing around the crime scene.

“Now,” Amy confirmed. “Midwife had a check, and we’re three centimetres already.”

“But you’re not actually in labour yet,” Greg asked. Sally heard him and turned, her face expectant and joyful as she waited for his next words.

“Soon,” Amy said, “and if you want this baby born at your place, we should get set up.”

“Right,” Greg replied, slightly panicked. “I’ll send a car. Where are you?”

“Home,” Amy told him. “Tom’s here, so I’m ready to go.”

“Right,” Greg replied. He hung up from her, ignoring Sally as he ordered a car to pick up Amy, then dialled Mycroft.

“Gregory,” Mycroft replied.

“Now,” Greg said, his throat suddenly almost too full to speak. “It’s happening now. I’ve sent a car for Amy.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said, a tremor in his voice.

They both hung up, and Greg finally turned to Sally.

“It’s happening now?” Sally said, and Greg nodded. She gave a tiny squeal, then made a shooing motion. “Get out of here! You know Patel said I could work your active cases while you’re on paternity leave.”

“Right, Acting DI Donovan,” Greg said with a grin.

Impulsively, she hugged him. “Good luck,” she whispered.

Greg assumed someone drove him home; it wasn’t until he saw the room set up, Amy trundling around concentrating on her breathing he realised what he was doing. Ailsa nodded at him, though her attention was on Amy.

“Holy shit,” he muttered.

“Get comfortable,” Amy told him, smiling breathlessly. “Got a couple of hours, Ailsa reckons.”

“I am so glad you’ve done this before,” Greg told her, planting a smile on her forehead.

“Yep,” Amy replied. “That’s why we’re doing this, right?”

“Right,” Greg said, before disappearing to get changed into track pants and an old t-shirt.

Mycroft was only moments behind, and when he emerged in the same, Greg hugged him fiercely. “Our son’s coming,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.

Neither spoke much over the ensuing hours, taking their cues from Amy and Ailsa. The women seemed unphased by the process, and when Ailsa asked which dad would like to catch the baby, they stared at each other so long they missed the chance.

“Here he is!” Ailsa declared, plopping a squirmy, slippery baby on Greg’s bare chest.

Instinctively he raised his hands to support it, marvelling that the child was still attached to Amy, who was slumped back in relief. Blinking Greg looked down, realising his son – his _son_ – was nestling into his skin, frowning and mouthing, tiny fists clenched.

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, his hand coming into view. Hesitantly, it touched the dark hair, still slick with mess.

“Come on, wee one,” Ailsa said. She moved briskly, placing a towel over the baby’s back and giving it a good rub. He howled in protest, the voice nobody had ever heard before resonating through the room.

“There we are,” Ailsa said in satisfaction, tucking the towel around him. “Happy birthday, young man.” She smiled up at Greg and Mycroft. “Does he have a name?”

“No,” Mycroft replied. “Not…we haven’t agreed yet.”

“Well, that’ll come,” she said comfortably.

“Mycroft,” Greg murmured, his hands still under the towel. The baby’s hair was sticking up now, roughly dried by the towel; it was incongruous on such a small child. “He has so much hair.”

“He does,” Mycroft replied. “Thank God it’s not red.”

“No,” Greg said, and the ridiculous comment made him laugh, which quickly turned into jerky sobs. “Our son is here.”

“We are parents,” Mycroft added.

“Holy shit,” Greg said.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. Greg was still looking at his son when he heard Mycroft move over to Amy. “Thank you,” he said, the emotion in his voice triggering more tears in Greg. “Are you well?”

“Yep,” Amy said, though she sounded exhausted. “Glad I could help.”

Another incredible understatement, Greg thought to himself as his son blinked. The crying hadn’t lasted long, and now he was calm and alert, huge dark eyes blinking.

_Holy shit._


	13. Primrose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Lizbetrx.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; a first time; G rated.

“Are you sure, Mycroft?” Greg asked, his heart suddenly in his throat at the idea.

“It is entirely up to you, of course,” Mycroft replied. “Primrose is not accustomed to meeting new people, but I’m certain after a period of adjustment she will accept you.”

“Well that’s reassuring,” Greg said dryly. “And what if she doesn’t?”

Mycroft considered the question with all the gravity Greg had come to expect. “I will take all possible steps to ensure an accord is reached,” he said quietly.

Greg nodded. He wished suddenly that they were not sitting in this fancy restaurant to have this conversation. Now was a time for soft touches, for reassurance that if things went badly, Mycroft would at least consider throwing Primrose over for him.

“Perhaps we could continue this conversation at a later date,” Mycroft said.

“Let’s do it now,” Greg blurted. When Mycroft looked startled, he added, “The uncertainty’s gonna kill me.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied.

They barely exchanged another word on the way to Mycroft’s flat, a place Greg had yet to visit without warning.

“Are you sure, Gregory?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. He waited as Mycroft went through the usual security rigmarole, and when they stepped into the lift it was a relief to have Mycroft’s fingers tangle with him. The few stories rise felt like it took an age; when the lift slowed to a stop, Greg drew a deep breath. It was now or never, he told himself. Moment of truth and all that.

_Enough with the clichés, Lestrade._

Greg was concentrating too much on keeping himself calm to pay a lot of attention to Mycroft’s flat as they turned away from the living areas and down a short hallway. _Big_ and _expensive_ were all he registered, neither of which were a surprise.

“She’s in here,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg blinked, realising they were in an office. Mycroft’s office. Which was a completely normal office, except for the large tank standing beside the desk. Greg glanced at Mycroft, who encouraged him to step forward. Greg examined the tank as he moved closer, wondering what was inside. Not fish, that was certain, and he didn’t think it was right for a gerbil or guinea pig.

“This is Primrose?” he asked.

“It is,” Mycroft replied. “Can you see her?”

“No,” Greg said hesitantly. “What is she, exactly?”

Mycroft was peering around the tank, and he finally seemed to have spotted something. Greg took a very large step back as he eased the top of the tank free, reaching carefully in to collect something from the underside of a small log. It was hairy ( _not a snake_ ) but small ( _too small for a guinea pig_ ) and didn’t appear to have a tail ( _not a rat or mouse_ ). Greg’s shoulders were tight and he could feel the wall close behind him as he waited.

Thankfully Mycroft didn’t come any closer, instead turning to show Greg what was now sitting on the palm of his hand.

“Jesus, it’s a spider,” Greg gasped.

“ _Thrixopelma ockerti_ ,” Mycroft replied. “A Flame Rump Tree Spider.” Greg eased a little closer. The spider was big, covering Mycroft’s palm, and he could see where the name came from – the biggest part of her body was deep red.

“Right,” Greg said, not coming any closer, relieved when Mycroft carefully put her back in the tank. He watched as the lid was secured. “So all that about her being a bit territorial, needing to get used to me…”

“A small subterfuge, though true,” Mycroft admitted. He washed his hands at the small sink beside the tank, then turned back to Greg, moving far closer than Greg had allowed the spider. “You seemed quite worried my pet would not accept you.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “It’s important. I mean, people’s pets are important to them, and if you don’t get along,” he shrugged.

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied, kissing him gently. “For the record, Primrose remains in her tank most of the time. She is skittish and prefers it that way.”

“Good to hear,” Greg said, finally allowing himself to smile. “I’m glad that’s settled.”

“As am I,” Mycroft murmured.


	14. Papa money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For brooklyn09.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; Parents; G rated.

“Oh, Papa’s picking us up!” Chloe said, nudging her sister.

“Come on,” Greg told the girls, taking their hands.

“We don’t have to hurry,” Victoria informed him. “Papa can park wherever he wants. For as long as he wants.” She spoke with the complete authority of a seven year old who had been told something by a parent; Greg still grinned at such faith from his daughter. He wondered how long it would last, but decided not to mourn the loss of something he still enjoyed so completely.

“But the longer we take, the more time it will be before you know why he’s picking us up,” Greg told them.

“Oh!” Chloe exclaimed, tugging on Greg’s hand. “Come on, then!”

Her blonde hair was whipped around by the wind and her awkward gait, the school bag thumping against her bottom and throwing her off balance.

“You don’t want to run?” Greg asked Victoria.

“No,” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet with each step. She turned her face up, dark eyes excited. “I like the waiting part. When you don’t know yet.”

Greg grinned. “Me too,” he confided, and they shared a special grin.

Chloe was already in the car when they arrived, and Greg took Victoria’s bag so she could scramble in after her sister.

“Hi Papa,” she said, climbing on his knee and throwing her arms around him for a brief, fierce hug.

“Good afternoon,” he said, and she slid off his knee and onto the seat beside him, legs curled under herself. They’d given up on shoes with buckles when it became clear the girls would be sliding their feet along the leather seats of Her Majesty’s car service for many years to come.

Greg smiled, settling on the opposite seat. It was still one of his favourite images. Mycroft, still dressed from work, a small figure under each arm, one blonde head and one dark turned up to him, faces adoring. Grey eyes flashed over at Greg for a second, amused and still slightly astonished, after all these years.

_Hello, my dear._

Greg grinned, returning the greeting.

_Hi, gorgeous._

Mycroft’s attention was turned back to the girls, and Greg watched as he explained their afternoon plans, a rare outing with all four of them in the daylight. Such treats were generally reserved for weekends, and discussed and planned in the week ahead. Secret plans were often made between Greg and Mycroft but the girls would never know how often they had to be broken, such was the nature of both of their jobs. Hence, this afternoon was special.

“Daddy, we’re going to the ice-cream place!” Victoria announced, eyes shining.

“With the good milkshakes?” Greg asked.

“With the good milkshakes!” Chloe confirmed, bouncing a little on her seat.

“Well, I don’t know if I could drink a whole milkshake,” Greg said doubtfully. “Maybe Papa and I can share one.”

“Okay,” Victoria said understandingly, “but Chloe and I get out _own_ ones.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied, “but they are very expensive, you know.”

Victoria beamed. “I have so much Papa money,” she said. A small hand cupped Mycroft’s jaw, turning his head down to hers so she could plant kisses across his face, each carefully considered before it was bestowed. Several seconds later, she allowed Mycroft to sit up.

“Is that enough, Papa?” she asked seriously. “I have lots more if you need them. Lots and _lots_ more.”

“That is the perfect amount,” Mycroft replied. “How lucky I am to be so rich.”


	15. Something Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Lizbetrx.  
> Patrick/David (Schitt's Creek); After Open Mic; G rated.  
> David just needs a minute to compose himself...

As the applause rose, drowning out the last notes of Patrick’s song, David looked up to the ceiling. He was hoping to quell the inconvenient emotion being carried higher by the whole situation. Crying in public was not something he was prepared to do, and when several people stopped Patrick on his way over, David saw his chance. Ignoring his mother he stepped behind the counter and ducked into the storeroom, breathing deeply. He fanned at his face, hoping nobody would come looking for him. He just needed this few moments to compose himself.

“David?”

_Oh God._

Patrick’s head poked through the door, and when his eyes settled on David the rest of him followed. David was pacing; he caught glimpses of Patrick as he approached. The smile on his face was uncertain as he studied David.

“Are you okay?” he asked carefully.

“Mmm-hmm,” David nodded, not looking Patrick in the face. His eyes would definitely be David’s undoing and now was not the time to fall apart. “Just need a minute.”

“Okay,” Patrick said, but he didn’t leave. He hesitated, then took a step closer, saying, “Look, was that not okay? I didn’t mean…”

David didn’t let him finish. Patrick apologising was absolutely not okay right now. He stepped right into Patrick’s space, one hand cupping his face and eyes braced to meet the caramel irises he adored.

“No,” David managed, “that song was…” he drew a deep breath, looking up again before returning to Patrick’s eyes, “it was good.” His voice broke on the last word, and he tried to smile.

“Okay,” Patrick said, nodding blowing out a breath. “Do you need a few minutes?”

“Yes,” David replied, “Yeah, I do.”

“Okay, come back out when you’re ready,” Patrick replied. He dropped a brief kiss on David’s lips before disappearing back out into the store.

David exhaled heavily as the curtain swung gently in the wake of Patrick. He wasn’t as teary now, but exhaustion rolled through his head instead. He’d barely slept since Patrick announced the open mic night, and when he said he would be singing? David fought with himself, knowing he couldn’t _not_ be there. It was a mark of how different this relationship was. Anyone else and David would simply have not shown up. But he couldn’t do that to Patrick.

With a sigh he walked over to the futon on the far wall. They’d finally agreed to get something for this room after it became clear using Stevie’s place to ‘connect’ wasn’t going to happen often enough. David may have been known to take an afternoon nap here, and at least once Patrick slept here instead of dealing with Ray’s very loud early morning conference calls with someone in London. It was a win for everyone, but especially now.

 _I’ll just close my eyes for a minute_.

Someone was singing again, and while it was hardly Grammy award winning stuff, the song was acceptable background music. David pulled the rug over his legs and snuggled into the back of the futon.

_Just until the end of this song._

+++

“David?”

He frowned, pushing at the voice trying to wake him.

“David,” it came again, along with something landing on his leg.

_Oh God._

“Patrick,” David cried, sitting up and looking around wildly.

“I’m here,” Patrick replied, smiling at David.

It took a second for all his senses to catch up, but as David catalogued everything a few things weren’t aligning quite right.

“It’s dark,” he said, “and quiet.”

“It is,” Patrick said. “Everyone’s just gone home.”

“Gone home?” David said panic rising. “I slept through the whole thing?” His head was still fuzzy but he could feel his heart pounding. Patrick would be so angry. This was his idea, and David hadn’t supported it at all, but it had been a success and David had disappeared after the first song and not come back?

“You obviously needed it,” Patrick said calmly. “I thought for sure you’d wake up when everyone was stomping for Ray while he sang, ‘We Will Rock You’.”

David winced. It wasn’t entirely terrible he’d missed that part.

“So it was a success?” he asked, turning to face Patrick. The straight backed chair made Patrick taller, which David didn’t mind. He felt safe with Patrick.

“It was,” Patrick said. “A lot of people said they’d come again.” He smiled, none of the anger David anticipated on his face. “I told them I’d have to talk to you first.”

A wave of guilt rolled through David. “I wasn’t very supportive,” he said, wincing. “You were right. People came.”

“They did,” Patrick said. He studied David’s face. “I understand it wasn’t your comfort zone. But I appreciate that you didn’t stop it from happening, either.”

“It’s your store too,” David said.

From Patrick’s expression, he hadn’t been expecting to hear that. Was it really a surprise to hear David say it? Patrick worked just as hard, and he had helped get a lot of funding at the start.

“Thank you, David,” Patrick said.

David nodded, uncomfortable with the sincere gratitude.

“So you wouldn’t mind if I sang again?” Patrick asked, a mischievous smile dancing across his face.

David tilted his head. “Do we think that needs to be a regular feature?” he asked.

“You seemed to like the song tonight,” Patrick replied.

The smile he’d started working on slid from David’s face as he remembered Patrick singing to him. He still hadn’t explained his reaction, and from Patrick’s expression, he realised that too.

“That song,” David said, sliding forward until he was sitting on the edge of the futon, “it was…amazing.”

“I told you, we did a lot of open mic stuff,” Patrick said with a smile. “I’m used to singing in front of people.”

David was already shaking his head before Patrick was finished, pressing his lips together before it was his turn to speak. “No, that’s not what I meant. That song. The words.” He swallowed hard, resting his hands on Patrick’s knees. “Did you mean them?”

The last threads of humour drained from Patrick’s face as he nodded. “Every one,” he said quietly. His hands covered David’s, and he leaned forward. He was a little taller, but not an awkward amount; David thrilled to realise this was their usual height difference but reversed. Having Patrick’s face higher felt protective, something he was definitely unfamiliar with. He tilted his face up automatically, seeking to hold their gaze, though his eyes fluttered closed when Patrick kissed him instead. It was gentle and slow, the kind of kiss David had learned to love with Patrick. Slow and gentle were not the way he’d experienced intimacy – if the sex he’d had could be called intimate – until Patrick. Even when they were making out in the storeroom, Patrick liked to explore. He made David feel like a long, slow kiss was enough when they could probably have managed a rushed hand job in the same amount of time.

When the kiss broke David was breathless and inexplicably close to tears again. Why had he been thinking about how Patrick made him feel? He’d worked so hard to conceal his tears tonight. Opening his eyes, forehead pressed to Patrick’s, David suddenly wondered if it would really be so terrible for Patrick to see him cry. The thought was alarming, and he quashed it, concentrating on Patrick’s eyes instead.

“David,” Patrick said, and his expression was serious, “you mean a lot to me.”

David nodded. He swallowed, hoping Patrick wasn’t about to make any declarations he might later regret. It was already a minor miracle that he hadn’t yet realised what a mess David was; surely anything legally binding would be a terrible idea. It was unlikely Patrick was going to propose of course, but David had seen Alexis turn down people she’d known less time. Suddenly David realised what Patrick might be going to say.

_Oh God._

_Don’t say it._

_You know I can’t say it back._

“I’m falling pretty hard for you,” Patrick said. He clenched his hands around David’s, waiting for David’s sharp inhalation to fade before continuing, “I’m not going to say anything specific right now, don’t worry.” David nodded, breathing deep and slow, hoping his heart would get the message. “But I wanted you to know.” It was Patrick’s turn to swallow. “I wanted everyone to know this is something. For me, at least. Something special.”

David nodded, eyes brimming with tears. This time he allowed them to fall. Patrick knew him well enough to be careful with his words. He never dismissed David’s fears, and he knew how to appease the panic that rose so often in him.

_Something special._

_Jesus._

It made David feel brave enough to be honest. “Me too,” he whispered before Patrick pulled him into another kiss.


	16. So Much Green...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Mariawasd.  
> From the prompt: A toppy, confident Mycroft who knows what he wants and that is Greg Lestrade, who is flustered by the situation.
> 
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; BDSM practices; M rated.

“So all I had to do,” Greg gasped, struggling to get the words out in the right order, “was ask?”

Mycroft hummed, one finger distractingly tracing the shape of Greg’s nipple under his shirt. “I wouldn’t say that, precisely,” he purred, eyes flashing.

They were the dark grey of storm clouds heralding rain, Greg thought, desperately trying to work out how the hell they’d gone from finishing that case together to this. Granted the alley was deserted now, but he felt exposed standing here with a raging erection and a man quite obviously delighted to see it.

“But you wanted me to…” Greg started, biting off a groan as Mycroft’s finger and thumb pressed either side of his nipple, the barest hint of inward pressure suggesting a pinch without actually offering it.

“I believe I simply made myself clear,” Mycroft said. “After considerable thought, Detective Inspector, I have decided that nothing will satisfy me more than taking you to my bed.” His expression was confident, the kind of lazy smile only ever borne of someone secure in the knowledge of their own attractiveness. “Consent is important, of course, and I need to hear you express a similar…desire.”

Greg swallowed. He was sure Mycroft had been further away at the start of this conversation; somehow Greg had blinked, distracted by a flashing light and then Mycroft was much closer, his body language edging on predatory. Enough to startle him without raising a red flag. Something else had been raised though, as he watched Mycroft’s appreciative eyes roam over his body, and he’d blurted, “What?”

“As I was saying,” Mycroft said now, easing his body closer, “negotiations can be ongoing, or we can adopt the traffic light system as we...explore.”

“T-traffic lights?” Greg repeated, a wave of expensive scent washing over him. Jesus, was the man wearing pheromones on purpose?

“Say red and I’ll stop immediately, no questions,” Mycroft said, and his thigh brushed Greg’s, the merest suggestion of contact. “Yellow means we need to pause and discuss, and green,” he stopped meeting Greg’s eyes, raising an eyebrow as an invitation for Greg to fill in the blank.

“Green means go,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft hummed with approval. “Indeed it does,” he said. “Perhaps a demonstration. Right now I have a number of things on my mind, none of which are appropriate for this alleyway.” Greg heard himself keen as the gentle press became firmer, a promise of more to come. “Nevertheless, I would very much enjoy pressing you back into that brick wall and sucking a mark into your neck. Below the collar, of course.”

Greg blinked, unsure of what he was expected to say. Was _oh God yes please do that although I might come in my pants right now but I’m willing to risk it_ too forward?

“What colour, Gregory?” Mycroft purred, his lips brushing Greg’s ear as he spoke.

“Green,” Greg choked out, barely finishing the word before Mycroft made good on his proposal.

For the firmness of the pressure he was not rough; Greg could feel the restraint as he guided Greg back against the wall, leaving no doubt he was in charge yet ensuring he didn’t crack his head. Immediately Greg was overwhelmed, surrounded by Mycroft’s mouth, his hands, his lean body moulding itself to Greg’s in a wordless promise of the night to come.

 _Green_ , Greg thought, _so much green…_


	17. Married

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Paialovespie.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; Wedding; G rated.
> 
> From the prompt: Greg and Mycroft collapse into bed on the night of their wedding. What a disaster - absolutely everything that could have gone wrong, did. Except that at the end of the day, they're married now.  
> 

“Jesus,” Greg muttered, never so grateful for the feel of their mattress under his back. “I hope you’ve got the caterer’s number, sweetheart.”

“I do,” came the voice from beside him, a thread of pain still evident. “Anthea will contact them as soon as possible.”

“I’m sure they won’t press charges,” Greg replied. “Probably.”

“They will be fully reimbursed for the cost of replacing their equipment,” Mycroft said, wincing as he shifted his head. “I doubt Anderson anticipated your Sergeant’s boyfriend reacting in such a manner.”

“No idea why we invited him,” Greg grumbled, knowing full well they couldn’t avoid it, not with so many other colleagues coming. “It’s not as though the venue came through with their Deluxe package.”

“Another task for Anthea,” Mycroft soothed, reaching his free hand to wind into his husband’s hair. “Their promise of a ‘unique experience’ was hardly adequate warning of the Star Wars convention on the floor above.”

“Who would have guessed our recessional would basically be the Imperial Death March?” Greg groaned. “You couldn’t even hear Sherlock playing.”

“I think that’s why he stormed out,” Mycroft agreed. “And had the cake arrived on time, his violin would not have been sitting on the designated table-”

“-they wouldn’t have set the cake down without looking-” Greg continued the narrative.

“-and the cake wouldn’t have toppled into the oyster shucker,” Mycroft finished. He sighed. “I am hopeful his hand will heal without any long term damage. Those knives are viciously sharp.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. His mind drifted back to the kitchen disaster. “It was a good thing Sally’s boyfriend was too drunk to fight properly.”

“I’m not sure Anderson feels the same,” Mycroft said. “In his calm and considered attempt to escape he probably injured himself more than if he’d just stepped aside.”

Greg snorted at such sarcasm; Anderson’s screams were panicked and many, making his destructive exit through the kitchen far more dramatic than the single, staggering attempt at a punch really warranted.

“I hope they can convince Wedgewood to make another set of serving platters,” Greg replied. “Were they really so valuable?”

“Commissioned by Queen Victoria near the end of her reign,” Mycroft lamented. “Irreplaceable, though the pattern can be replicated.”

Greg nodded. “Well, I’m glad you’re still here,” he said quietly. “That’s the main thing.”

“As am I,” Mycroft replied. “It justified the last two months’ effort, in the end.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Though it would have been better if they hadn’t whisked Anthea off quite so fast.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft sighed. “The drawbacks of an Alpha Security clearance is the complete inability to be contacted, should you accidentally take all record of your boss’ honeymoon with you.”

“And his passport,” Greg replied. “Did you really let her book everything?”

“As long as I was with you, I had no other demand,” Mycroft said. “All my focus was on increasing her clearance so she might act in my stead for the period of my absence.”

Greg nodded. “Well that is something that worked,” he said. “We’re here, together.” He turned, smiling up as his new husband.

Mycroft returned the smile, carefully easing down to kiss him lightly. “With any luck the nausea will abate soon,” he said, wincing as he sat up again.

“I’m sorry,” Greg said, face pulling into the regretful expression again. “My mother simply refuses to believe anyone drinks anything other than the house wine, ever.”

“She is not aware of my severe sulphite allergy,” Mycroft replied, “and I should have asked before accepting the wine.”

“Yeah, but how will you explain this?” Greg said, gesturing at his husband’s carefully covered stitches. “Vomiting so hard you concussed yourself on the door of a public toilet?”

Mycroft winced again. “I only pray it does not scar,” he whispered.

“Scar or no scar,” Greg said, “We’ll never forget our wedding day.”


	18. Second Best Gnome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Saratonin.  
> From the prompt: Draco and Harry as new parents; Teddy their Godson is there.  
> Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter; Parents; G rated.

“This is the baby?” Teddy asked, his eyes suspicious.

“Yes,” Draco said. He was watching the small boy carefully, and Harry could see Draco’s nerves in the shaking of his fingers as he stroked a lock of strawberry blond back from Teddy’s forehead.

“It’s very small,” Teddy said finally. He screwed up his nose in disappointment.

“He is,” Harry said. “He’ll grow.”

“I won’t share my chocolate frogs,” Teddy announced, looking up at both Draco and Harry to see how his decision was received.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Draco said seriously. “He won’t be ready for chocolate for a while.”

“Well he can get his own damn frogs,” Teddy said, though without any heat to his words.

“Of course,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow at Draco. He grinned as Draco flushed, pointedly watching Teddy wander off, his flare of interest satisfied now that the much prepared-for baby wasn’t all that interesting.

“That went better than I expected,” Draco murmured.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. He lowered his eyes from his husband to their new baby, his dark skin beautiful. “Do you think he’ll have magic?”

Draco shrugged, entranced by the perfect fingers grasping his. “Probably,” he said. “Squibs aren’t all that common, not really.”

“But they can’t be sure of exactly who the parents are,” Harry said. Tracing people still wasn’t easy, especially with so many foreign wizards entering in the aftermath of the war. He wondered if the baby had family in Africa? Would it be possible to find them?

Draco’s fingers smoothed over the tiny forehead before he spoke. “Does it matter to you?” he asked, curious.

“I know what it’s like to be different,” Harry reminded him. “And I don’t want that for him.”

Draco nodded. “I know,” he said quietly. “But if we love him for himself, it won’t be the same.”

 _As your childhood_ , Harry heard.

 _As my childhood_ , he heard, too, his heart breaking a little.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, looking up as Teddy came over, stuffed gnomes in hand.

“The baby can have this one,” Teddy said. “It’s not the best one, that one’s mine.”

“Thanks, Ted,” Harry said. “Hey, do you think we should call him Benjamin, or just Ben?”

“I dunno,” Teddy replied. He peered over. “What do you think?” he said, voice suddenly soft. “What do you think, Benny-boy?”

“Benny-boy?” Draco repeated, mild indignation in his tone at this nickname.

“He likes it,” Teddy announced. “I’m going to call him Benny-boy.” He looked up, wide eyes slipping from green to the navy he unconsciously adopted when he was being serious. “When he’s old enough you should ask him what he ‘fers. Some people don’t like nicknames, and that’s okay.”

Harry nodded, biting the inside of his cheek as he tried to control his grin. “Thanks for reminding me, Ted,” he said.

“You’re allowed to call me Ted,” Teddy said. He pointed to Draco. “You have to call me Theodore.”

Draco nodded, accepting his lot. “I understand,” he said gravely.

Teddy returned his nod, eyes lingering on the sleeping baby. “I don’t know what all the fuss was about,” he said offhandedly. He pointed at the baby. “He doesn’t do anything.”

Pronouncement made, he wandered off again, leaving the lesser of the gnome toys with Draco.

“Don’t tell him,” Harry said under his breath. “He’ll find out soon enough.”


	19. After An Argument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Joel.  
> From the prompt 'After an argument.'  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; Established Relationship; Reassurance; T rated.

Mycroft sighed, rolling his shoulder tightly. It wasn’t enough to release the tension, not that he expected it to; there was one thing that would work, and he wasn’t exactly in a position to make it happen.

The months with Gregory had showed Mycroft ‘ _making_ things happen’ was a work concept rather than a relationship concept. He was still uncomfortable _allowing_ things to happen, truly working with someone and relinquishing the kind of total control to which he was accustomed. Gregory was patient and kind, but he was unmoving when it came to the power dynamic in their relationship. Equals, or not at all.

This was no different.

The disagreement was silly, exacerbated by frustration and fatigue on both sides. There had been other disagreements before this and though he fought his own reactions old habits were difficult to break. Sighing, Mycroft reached for the intercom.

“A car, please,” Mycroft said, finally accepting he wasn’t making any progress. Even if he had to stay in his office at home, it would be better than being here. The car bumped under him before he was prepared to admit it was the proximity to Gregory that would settle him more than anything else. And two walls were far superior to two kilometres.

In the lift Mycroft managed his breathing, knowing if Gregory was home he would have been alerted to Mycroft’s arrival. He would have forty-five seconds notice, enough time to decide where he wanted to be when Mycroft stepped inside. It would be very informative as to where he was emotionally; Mycroft could take his cue from that. It might break his heart to come into their sitting-room and find it empty, knowing Gregory was aware of his presence but chose to be absent, but that was his cross to bear after this morning.

The lift stopped, Mycroft drawing one last deep breath before the doors slid open. Cautiously, he stepped across the threshold, barely moving as he tried to assess the atmosphere. The air felt still; he could not tell if Gregory was here or not. The security panel would tell him, but Mycroft took a second longer before turning to the panel. He scanned his fingerprint, typing the code from memory before allowing himself to look at the rest of the indicators.

One green light turned to two.

Two people home. So, Gregory was here. Mycroft swallowed, nodding to himself. His fingers flexed around his umbrella before he turned to start the process of leaving his outer layers in the hall cupboard. Overcoat, umbrella, various items from his pockets; automatically he turned to the bedroom, continuing his conversion from work self to home self. It had taken months of gentle encouragement, but he now removed his cufflinks and pocket watch, the accoutrements he habitually wore finding their places. Gregory was always pleased to see him in one of the soft cashmere jumpers he’d bought, and today Mycroft also chose a pair of trousers he knew were more relaxed than his suits. If he was honest Gregory’s preference influenced his choice.

As he sat on the end of the bed, no more fuss to be made to his appearance, the doubt overtook his control for a moment. It had clawed at the edges of his day ever since he’d left the flat that morning, knowing their disagreement was not resolved. He hated that after so much work and trust and fear he’d tried to quell, one brief conversation could still set him back here. Gregory was kind and patient and most of Mycroft knew that the lack of coffee pods on one morning would not spell the end of what they had built.

And yet his fear and doubt were insidious, waiting for a crack to appear. They wedged themselves in like water in a rock, waiting for a cold snap to expand them and crack his self-esteem wide open again, exposing the vulnerabilities inside. He wasn’t strong enough to fight them, and this was the core of his fear. That without Gregory he was not strong enough to fight his own head, and inevitably, he would slip back into…

“Hey,” Gregory’s voice cut through Mycroft’s spiral.

He looked up, not prepared for the interaction, his mind still throwing up a hundred old and terrible thoughts. Perhaps Gregory could see the impending collapse, because he started moving immediately, covering the space between them in the time it took Mycroft’s face to crumble. Before he could drop to the floor, Gregory was there, sliding into his arms, stopping Mycroft’s hands from covering his face. Instead it was buried in Gregory’s shoulder, hands clutching at the oldest and most comfortable hoodie Gregory owned.

The relief was sharp and overpowering, washing doubt and darkness away, at least for the moment. Gregory’s embrace was tight, his scent flowing through all the cracks in Mycroft’s defences like saline through an open wound. It was the beginning, and Mycroft welcomed the emotion, drawing Gregory closer until he was finally and spectacularly done.

“Hey,” Gregory said again, the sound reverberating through Mycroft’s chest. “I’m sorry about this morning.”

Mycroft nodded. “Me too,” he managed, lifting his head. “I shouldn’t…”

“No,” Gregory interrupted gently, his smile supportive. “We don’t use ‘should’, remember?”

Mycroft nodded, swallowing. “I’m sorry, I forgot,” he whispered.

“It’s okay,” Gregory replied. “We’re both so tired right now, and since it’s nobody’s actual job to order new coffee pods, it was forgotten.”

Mycroft admired Gregory’s careful use of the passive voice. It was so easy for him to look past blame to finding solutions.

“I called the shop today,” Gregory continued. “They have a record of all our orders, so it was easy to set up a delivery plan with the right amount. They’ll deliver every month, and if it’s not right, like if we start drinking more or something, we can always change it.”

“They would do that?” Mycroft whispered.

“Yep,” Gregory replied. “So now nobody has to remember, and we’ll always have enough coffee.”

Mycroft nodded, overwhelmed at how easily Gregory forgot impatient words and started looking for a solution to the problem that had precipitated the disagreement in the first place. “Thank you,” he said.

“You look tired,” Gregory said quietly. “Maybe it’s time to call a blackout.”

Mycroft hesitated, but he had to admit Gregory was right. He met Gregory’s eyes and took three long slow breaths, considering the idea. It was designed to stop him making snap decisions, to help him break old habits, and it worked.

“Yes,” he said. “Please.”

“I’ll call Anthea,” Gregory said. “Why don’t you run a bath and I’ll bring you some tea?”

Mycroft nodded. He was still sitting on the end of the bed as Gregory dropped a kiss on his temple and headed out to the secure phone in the kitchen. The idea of _blackout_ was still new, but he had to admit two days off sounded exquisite. Thank all the Gods Gregory and Anthea were determined to help him take care of himself.

Pressing down another sob, Mycroft headed for the bathroom.


	20. Special Baking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Lizbetrx.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; established relationship; Christmas; Rated G.

“Myc?” Greg called, shucking his coat as he entered their flat. It still made him smile to think of it as _their_ flat. Less than a year after they’d started seeing each other their conflicting schedules made every moment important. Finding a flat was far easier than Greg remembered, though of course he wasn’t constrained by a budget this time, and he wasn’t calling in favours to move his boxes of stuff. Their flat was close enough for him to walk to work, and Mycroft’s home office allowed him to come home earlier in the evenings.

It was lovely.

Before he could make it further into the house, Greg frowned, picking up a familiar smell.

“Myc?” he called again, heading towards the kitchen. The sweet, spicy smell became stronger until he rounded the corner. “Are you baking?” he asked, the question ridiculous given the spread in front of him.

“Good evening,” Mycroft greeted him, wiping his hands on a cloth as he came around the bench.

“I didn’t know you baked,” Greg said, smiling into their kiss.

“Only at Christmas,” Mycroft said, arms winding around Greg’s waist. “A tightly kept secret.”

“Well, I’m honoured to be in the know,” Greg said. He peered over Mycroft’s shoulder. “You want to walk me through what you’ve made?”

“Gingerbread,” Mycroft said, leaving one arm around Greg’s waist as they turned. He pointed at large, flat pieces cooling on the far bench. “Ready for assembly into a house tomorrow.”

“Have you taken time off to do this?” Greg asked in astonishment.

“Tomorrow is a weekend,” Mycroft said calmly.

Greg snorted, but didn’t speak. They both knew how little either of their jobs respected weekends, but he didn’t press. Something about this felt fragile. Mycroft’s voice was a little too even, his arm a little rigid about Greg’s torso. Greg’s heart squeezed as he realised Mycroft was nervous about sharing this with him.

“What about these?” Greg asked, turning. “Shortbread?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “An old recipe,” he pointed to the fluted rounds, “and some with macadamias.”

“Yum,” Greg said with a grin.

“Mince pies,” Mycroft continued, “with and without peel.”

Greg grinned, turning Mycroft to face him. “You’re amazing,” he said with a grin, pressing Mycroft back into the bench for a proper kiss. It started deliberately hard but softened quickly into a slow exploration. Greg felt himself shiver at the familiar feel of Mycroft’s body against his.

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured, when the kiss broke. Greg knew Mycroft wasn’t thanking him for kiss, and love flowed through him as it always did when Mycroft looked at him with such wonder.

“You’ve been sampling the mince pies,” Greg replied. He kissed Mycroft again deeply. “They taste great.”

Mycroft returned the kiss, sending a thrill down Greg’s back. His hands were clutching more tightly than usual, and when the kiss broke he buried his face in Greg’s neck, breathing deeply for several breaths.

“There’s one special one,” Mycroft whispered, his voice shivering. “Would you…would you like to eat it now?”

Greg nodded, unsure why Mycroft was so emotional. He accepted the small pie, its base still warm against his fingers.

“Break it open,” Mycroft said, his voice breaking.

Greg glanced up, his fingers pulling the halves of the pastry apart. When his gaze returned, he saw something catch the light inside one half of the pie.

“Oh,” he whispered. Shaking, one finger caught on the ring, tugging it free of the sticky filling.

“Marry me,” Mycroft whispered. “Please.”

“Yes,” Greg said simply and kissed Mycroft, the taste of mince pie still lingering on his lips.


	21. Nailed It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For MariaWASD.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; established relationship; Christmas; Rated G.

“Please, sit down, Gregory,” Mycroft said. He tried to hide his exasperation but could feel it around the edges of his voice as his husband scowled at him.

“I can get my own beer,” Gregory grumbled, but by the time he’d finished speaking, Mycroft was back with both his beer and a coaster.

“You can,” Mycroft replied easily, “but not only am I happy to do so, it will only exacerbate your knee to be up and down so much.”

Mycroft could see the irritation melt into frustration as Gregory raised the bottle to his lips. It had been a long few months of rehabilitation. The physical rebuilding went as expected, but it took a while for Gregory to accept that with his slightly dodgy knee now re-certified as entirely dodgy, his career was effectively over. Unwilling to ‘drive a desk’ as he put it so bitterly, tears had been shed in the dark when he’d finally whispered his acceptance of the disability package the Commissioner had offered.

By Christmas, the boredom had set in. Mycroft knew his husband was well aware of his limitations. Only his stubborn nature made him refuse to admit when he was sore, and the boredom ramped up his stubbornness.

“If we had a dog, I could train it to get me a beer,” Gregory pointed out, not for the first time.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, knowing the comment meant Gregory wasn’t all that annoyed any more. The dog had been a point of contention ever since Gregory had accepted he wouldn’t be going back to work. He’d floated the idea, but Mycroft was firmly against it. The mess was his main opposition, but Gregory was nothing if not tenacious. Mycroft could hardly make a comment without Gregory bringing up the idea of a dog. At this point they’d settled into a rhythm, and Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure how hard Gregory still held onto the idea.

Before he was able to reply, the door buzzer sounded. Mycroft felt his heart flutter at the sound; his husband looked surprised, which meant he probably hadn’t guessed.

“Are we expecting someone?” Gregory asked.

“I am,” Mycroft replied. He smiled at his husband. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Christmas isn’t for another week,” Gregory said with a grin. “But I’m not going to turn down an early present.” He closed his eyes and opened his arms exaggeratedly. “Is this big enough?”

“Almost,” Mycroft said with a rush of affection. He kissed the knuckles closest to him. “Wait here, will you please?”

“Yep,” Gregory replied with a smile. His eyes were still closed as Mycroft left the room.

It took only a moment to open the door; John stood as arranged, a broad grin on his face.

“Thank you,” Mycroft whispered, as John passed him the package.

“No worries,” John replied. “Let me know how it goes.”

Mycroft nodded, closing the door. He murmured something quiet and took a deep breath before walking back to the sitting room. “Eyes closed?” he called.

“Yep,” came the familiar call.

“Merry Christmas,” Mycroft said quietly. “Go on,” he said, releasing the lead from the collar. The dog looked up at him before walking forward, resting her muzzle on Greg’s thigh.

A sharply indrawn breath, and Gregory’s hand landed automatically on the dog’s head. “Mycroft,” he whispered, eyes wide as he met the dog’s eyes. She whined at him until he started scratching, though his eyes were now on Mycroft.

“Her name’s Luna,” Mycroft said. “She was surrendered to the shelter when they realised she has hip problems they couldn’t afford to treat.”

Gregory glanced up at his husband. “Are you sure?” he whispered.

“She’s exceptionally well trained,” Mycroft said, “and as a short haired breed, the shedding should be minimal.” He couldn’t help the smile that formed as he admitted, “I will ask Ambrosia to come more often to ensure we notice no difference.”

Gregory nodded and Mycroft’s heart turned over as he saw the tears in his husband’s eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Mycroft smiled, and he settled on the sofa beside his husband. He wasn’t always entirely sure how to choose the right present but it appeared this time, he’d nailed it.


	22. The Jumper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Paia.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; established relationship; Christmas; Rated G.

“Come on sugar, come and show me,” Greg called, struggling to keep the humour out of his voice. He was sitting on the end of the bed, bouncing a little as he waited for Mycroft to emerge from the dressing room.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Gregory.”

Mycroft’s voice was still a little muffled, and Greg had to sit on his hands to stop himself getting up. They’d agreed that Mycroft would try it on but he didn’t have to come out unless he wanted to.

Oh, and how Greg wanted him to.

“I can help you decide, if you want to come out and show me,” Greg said. He squeezed his eyes shut as he waited for Mycroft to respond.

“Really, Gregory,” Mycroft reprimanded him, and the sound was too close to be coming from the other room.

Greg’s eyes snapped open and landed directly on Mycroft.

“Oh,” he breathed. He stood up. “Will you show me?” he asked.

With an exaggerated sigh, Mycroft unfolded his arms, leaving them stiffly by his sides as Greg made a slow trip around, looking at him from all angles.

“You don’t like it?” Greg asked.

“I do not,” Mycroft said stiffly. “It is ridiculous,” he added, fingers curling into fists.

Greg stepped close, his eyes meeting Mycroft’s as his hands settled carefully over the familiar shape of Mycroft’s chest. “You’re all fuzzy,” he said, the words sounding more and more strangled until the laughter burbled out, finally too much for him to hold in. He felt Mycroft sigh, though he must not have been too upset because he stood resolute and still while Greg’s body shook with laughter.

“I’m sorry,” Greg managed at last, still half draped over Mycroft.

“I don’t believe you are,” Mycroft said. “I hope you do not expect me to wear this in public,” he said.

“Why not?” Greg said, breaking into laughter again. This time, Mycroft’s arms pulled him close and Greg breathed in the mix of scents, familiar and unfamiliar. Mycroft’s skin, his cologne soft from the day, contrasted the sharp smell of the new jumper.

“Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, his voice making Greg’s name sound soft and warm despite the gentle recrimination. “Please reassure me this is intended to be an amusing private gift.”

Greg squeezed his husband briefly before stepping back to arm’s length to look at Mycroft.

“Do you really think I would expect you to go out in public wearing a jumper that makes you look like the Grinch?”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “Not just the Grinch, Gregory,” he said. “A naked Grinch.”

“He’s not entirely naked,” Greg protested, tangling his fingers in the long green hair covering Mycroft’s torso.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, “it has a belly button.” He brushed his hands over his upper chest and wrinkled his nose. “And nipples.”

“Ooh,” Greg said through a smile, “sexy.” He collapsed laughing again, arms around Mycroft. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “It’s a joke. You don’t have to wear it anywhere.” He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s furry shoulders. “Unless here, if you want to.”

“Since it’s so sexy, maybe I will,” Mycroft replied. He smiled, his eyes as warm as his arms. “I didn’t know you saw the Grinch like that, Gregory.”

“Neither did I,” Greg said. “But maybe you’re changing my heart, Mister Grinch.”


	23. The Dance Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For PaialovesPie.  
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; Dancing For A Reason; rated G.  
> Greg is John's best man. He confesses privately to Mycroft (Sherlock's best man) that he doesn't know how to waltz. Mycroft offers to teach him so he'll be able to dance at Sherlock's wedding.

Greg’s smile faded as soon as he hung up from John.

“Shit,” he muttered, entirely forgetting where he was.

“A problem?” Mycroft asked from his sofa.

Greg looked at him, trying to decide how much to share. His brain said no, but the knowledge Mycroft would find out eventually pushed him to answer, “Yeah, kind of.”

Mycroft nodded. He set his teacup in its saucer, folding his hands before asking, “Might I be of assistance?”

Biting his lower lip helped him concentrate, but Greg was also very aware of how Mycroft’s eyes would drop to his mouth. It usually made him self-conscious, but this time a whisper of recklessness burst through instead. He held it for a second before answering.

“I need to learn how to dance.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow before understanding crossed his face. “The wedding,” he murmured.

“John asked me to be his best man,” Greg confirmed.

“And so we have complimentary roles,” Mycroft replied. “My brother – under some duress from both John and our parents, I believe – has requested I fulfil the same role for him.”

Greg nodded. John had told him in the same breath he’d asked Greg. “So I’ll have to dance with…someone. John’s mother? Your mother?”

“Most likely both,” Mycroft agreed. A moment hesitation before he stood, turning for a moment until waltz music filled the air.

Greg opened his mouth to ask what was happening, before Mycroft offered his hand. “Seriously?”

“You may lead, of course,” Mycroft said with a smile.

“Will I have to learn both?” he replied, sliding his fingers into Mycroft’s. The touch made him shiver, but instead of cutting it down he allowed the smile to spread across his face. This was different, an atmosphere finally melting together with opportunity and perhaps, two people ready to embark on something together.

“Let’s start with leading,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg allowed himself to be guided until he and Mycroft stood in a formal waltz position. Any thoughts of atmosphere dropped out of his head when he had to start concentrating on his feet. After a while he’d thought he was going alright, but Mycroft’s fingers on his chin made him start.

“Watching your feet is unnecessary,” Mycroft told him, fingers lingering before they returned to his shoulder. “The floor is stable, you have my word.”

Greg rolled his eyes, but grinned. “Where should I be looking?”

“It is considered polite to speak with your partner,” Mycroft said. “You might plan on meeting their eyes.”

Greg nodded, doing just that for half a song, but the music slipped into something slower and decidedly more romantic.

“Not sure I’ll be dancing with John’s mum to something like this,” he said with a smile.

“Perhaps not,” Mycroft replied. “If I might lead for a moment?”

“Sure,” Greg said. He expected Mycroft to simply switch their position but he felt himself being drawn into Mycroft’s chest, his breath catching in his throat. One hand was held against Mycroft’s chest, fingers tangled together; his other hand was guided to Mycroft’s shoulder and he felt it slide up and around Mycroft’s neck. His back bore the pressure of a hand spread wide, encouraging him close.

“This may be how you chose to dance,” Mycroft murmured, his mouth close to Greg’s ear. “Depending on your partner, of course.”

“There’s definitely a chance I’ll need to dance like this,” Greg said. He turned his face up to Mycroft. “You know, I thought the first dance was between the people standing up for each of the grooms.”

A slow smile spread over Mycroft’s face. “Such as ourselves?”

Greg hummed agreement. “I hope nobody minds if I would rather dance like this with you,” he murmured.

“I know I won’t,” Mycroft said.

They smiled as one, lips meeting as the final chord hung in the air.


	24. Even More Green...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For MariaWASD.  
> From the prompt: A toppy, confident Mycroft who knows what he wants and that is Greg Lestrade, who is flustered by the situation.
> 
> A second instalment to 'So Much Green...', chapter 16 from this collection - read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25747015/chapters/67165606).
> 
> Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade; BDSM practices; E rated.

Greg groaned, fingers flexing deep inside Mycroft. He was responding automatically, barely comprehending the words before his body shifted to do as Mycroft asked. The learning curve had been short but powerful from the alley to Mycroft’s flat. Mycroft never pushed, and as long as Greg was honest…well, he was not a slow student when the reward was the kind of ecstasy Mycroft promised and delivered. The mere suggestion of long fingers edging towards Greg’s groin had his hips pushing forward, legs spreading wide. A single finger drawn slowly up his swelling cock made Greg bite his lip, head pressing back.

“Look at me,” Mycroft purred, hardly needing to finish his sentence before Greg turned his head, latching onto dark grey, fighting the urge to close his eyes.

“Good,” Mycroft murmured, his finger drifting lower, tracing the shape of Greg’s balls through his trousers. “Colour?”

“Green.” The word was hardly more than a gasped breath, but it was enough to produce the ghost of a smile over Mycroft’s face.

Now, spread across Mycroft’s bed, Greg could hardly believe he was here. Mycroft had certainly never raised his voice, yet his suggestions sent Greg’s clothes scattering across the room, followed closely by Mycroft’s, the unfamiliar fastenings taking longer under shaking hands. Greg eyed Mycroft’s cock, the smear of pre come giving away his own arousal at the scene in which they found themselves.

_Both green…_

“Soon,” Mycroft said, following Greg’s gaze. “I thought we’d start simple.”

Greg waited, blinking. If asked before today, he’d have had ideas; right now whatever Mycroft suggested was probably going to be greener than a leprechaun’s arse.

“You’ll lie back while I use your fingers to prepare me,” Mycroft said, the words smooth and confident. “I’ll come on your cock before you can come inside me.”

“Jesus,” Greg gasped. “Green,” he added, knowing Mycroft would ask.

And now he found himself here, Mycroft having guided him to lie back against the pillows, one hand lingering from shoulder to hip before dipping inwards. He traced the crease between thigh and groin, barely brushing the side of Greg’s balls on his way to the skin behind them.

“Perhaps one day, if you are amenable,” Mycroft said, raising one eyebrow as his fingers lingered behind Greg’s balls, skating over his entrance.

Greg barely managed a groan as his legs instinctively widened, making more room. He hoped it sounded enough like _green_ for Mycroft to understand.

Either way, Mycroft left briefly, returning with lube and a condom. A matter of fact tone as he spoke of how he pleasured himself in Greg’s name accompanied Mycroft as he guided Greg’s fingers into his body, voice changing with enjoyment as his body adjusted.

Greg could hardly believe he hadn’t come just from the images Mycroft’s voice was painting in his mind. Mycroft’s body was tight around his fingers, but Greg was sure he feel Mycroft’s cock at the back of his throat, fingers tight in his hair as Mycroft described his favourite fantasy.

_One day…_

Fingers easing out of Mycroft, Greg breathed deeply, hoping he’d last like Mycroft asked, knowing he’d work hard to make it happen. As Mycroft lowered himself Greg heaved in a breath, the tight heat spreading down his cock as Mycroft’s mouth opened and he groaned deeply, body pulsing around Greg.

“Colour?” Greg managed, the impish impulse too much to ignore.

Mycroft’s eyes opened, his gaze fixing Greg with yet another pulse of desire.

“Green,” he replied, “so much green…”


	25. The Chickens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small drabble for Savvyblunders. <3  
> Mystrade/Retirement/H&C (but not badly)

The house was quiet. That in itself was not unusual, especially as they started their day, but Mycroft was sure he’d heard…something unusual. A combination of sounds that wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t work out why.

“Gregory?”

Mycroft frowned. He wanted to check on his husband, but standing up these days was a considered effort, and his leg only had so much tolerance for it. Mycroft had learned to ration his steps, accepting with reluctance the limitations age was putting on his body, even so early in the morning.

“Gregory?”

The silence rang again, only the slightly lifted head of a dog showing he’d spoken at all. A prickle of something skirted across Mycroft’s shoulders; he twisted, willing it to dissipate. Of course it wasn’t real. His mind often supplied worse-case-scenarios and he was skilled at hiding the outward signs. It was the residue of a life lived on high alert, and even now, with decades between his professional life and this small sitting room, the prickle still danced across his skin.

Mycroft glanced at the dogs.

“Best refresh the pot,” he murmured.

Neither dog raised their head as he slowly rose, one lined hand pressing into the padded arm of his chair, waiting to see if his bad leg would support him or not. He dared not pick up the tea tray until he knew, one way or another.

This time, it was amenable.

Mycroft walked through the kitchen, filling the kettle and placing it again on the hob, glancing around as though Gregory’s presence or absence wasn’t the primary reason for him being there. His eyes passed over the newspaper (open to the sport section), and mug (almost empty and cool to the touch). The back door was open, and this time he refused to react at all to the discomfort at this unusual situation.

He never left the door open.

Taking a deep breath Mycroft crossed the kitchen, stepping over the threshold. The sun was gentle on his skin as he turned, raising one hand to systematically scan the garden. This was Gregory’s domain, with the exception of the beehives; while Sherlock was the most passionate apiarist in the family, Mycroft was more than competent. The wildflower meadow was low maintenance but he’d chosen and sown the seeds himself. He enjoyed the process of collecting honey, murmuring to the small insects as he disrupted their home to collect their treasure.

It was his contribution. Gregory’s garden was bountiful, and he’d mastered bread with ease. They otherwise split the cooking, but honey, Gregory told him, was His Thing. The golden honey reflected the warm sweetness of Gregory’s words, and Mycroft cherished them.

“Gregory?”

His voice carried over the vegetables and chicken coop, and he was relieved Gregory wouldn’t see his tense shoulders sag when one weathered hand rose, waving over the tomato plants. Picking his way along the neat rows, Mycroft rounded the tomatoes to find Gregory sitting on the tiny stool he used when sorting eggs. Right now he was examining the bloodied remains of one of the chickens. His expression was hopeless; the bird was clearly dead.

“Oh, my dear,” Mycroft murmured. He reached for Gregory, easing him up from the chair. Gregory was trembling, and he continued forward into Mycroft’s arms, tears falling immediately into Mycroft’s shirt as he clung to his husband.

“Foxes again?” Mycroft asked when Gregory’s tears finally eased.

“Yeah,” Gregory whispered. He looked down again. “I didn’t build the gate strong enough.”

“You did your best,” Mycroft told him. “The gate was more secure than the last time, and the foxes are wilier than we anticipated.”

He guided his husband back to the house, their bodies supporting each other over uneven ground. “Shall I call Leonard? I believe he may have some ideas regarding the chickens.”

Gregory sighed, a small, sad noise than tugged at Mycroft’s heart. He didn’t reply until they were safely inside again.

“I thought I could do it on my own,” he murmured. Mycroft watched as he raised his mug to his lips then winced at the cold tea. “I went out to let the chickens out for the day but I could see...” he trailed off. Mycroft glanced out the door, registering the broken door that Gregory must have seen from this exact spot.

With gentle fingers he extracted the mug from Gregory’s fingers, pressing them back to the table.

_Wait._

Mycroft turned, taking the kettle from the hob. It had not boiled dry, thank goodness, and he was able to make two mugs immediately. It was second nature to make Gregory’s tea, and he barely looked to the milk as he poured it. The disappointment on his husband’s face was heart-breaking.

“Gregory,” Mycroft murmured. He passed the mug over, watching as familiar fingers wrapped around it. “You’ve done so much here. We can accept this help.” He rested one hand on Gregory’s arm. “Can’t we?”

Another sigh, and Gregory nodded. “I guess,” he said. The little frown between his eyebrows told Mycroft he wasn’t finished speaking. A sip of his tea filled the seconds before Gregory blurted, “Can you come with me? When I ask him?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “Of course I can, sweetheart.”


	26. Chocolate Protocols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's not used to the Day-After-Valentine's Day chocolate purchasing protocols, so Greg teaches him.  
> For Lizbetrx.  
> Mystrade/Fluff/Valentine's Day

“Happy Day-After-Valentine’s Day,” Greg said, grinning as the shopping bag in his hands dropped to the floor with a satisfying thunk.

Mycroft blinked. “I wasn’t aware this was a celebration?” he said, voice rising along with his eyebrows. “Another custom of which I am not aware?”

“Yep,” Greg replied. He carefully removed Mycroft’s book from his hands, marking the page before settling on the sofa and cuddling close. “It’s the day they mark all the chocolates half off,” he explained with a grin. “Can’t not buy them, it’s not fair on the shops. I’m reducing food waste, really.”

“Ah,” Mycroft rumbled, the smile slow and understanding. “A significant date, certainly.”

“Not the only day it happens, though,” Greg mused, pulling a large heart full of smaller chocolate hearts from the shopping bag.

“Easter and Christmas,” Mycroft said.

“Yep,” Greg said, feeding one of the chocolates to Mycroft. “’Cept I’m not usually consoling myself quite the same at either of those dates.”

“And nor will you again,” Mycroft murmured, “on this or any other date.”

Greg grinned, pressing into the kiss Mycroft offered. He was still hesitant physically, but to Greg’s surprise Mycroft was much bolder when it came to verbalising his thoughts. Even about their potential future, which they had barely talked about; New Years was still only weeks ago, yet Mycroft continued to astonish Greg with this exact kind of statement. Implying they would always be together, an idea Greg couldn’t even think about. The danger was the same as looking into the sun; mesmerising, yet too bright and destined to lead to pain, should it go wrong.

“Well, I did buy plenty of sweets for us both,” Greg murmured, when they eased back enough for talking. He was wrapped around Mycroft, one leg flung over Mycroft’s knees. Touch was easier than words for Greg, and he fancied Mycroft might slowly be realising they were actually saying the same things, but in different languages. Greg’s ex-wife had made him read something about love languages once, and while it had seemed a bit wanky at the time, he was now realising how useful it really was. Not for them, obviously, but when it came to understanding Mycroft, Greg was grateful for the phrases that had stuck in his head.

“And would that mean you are content with such a bargain?” Mycroft asked. “Because I recall spending a frankly obscene amount of money on your actual Valentine’s Day gifts. Should I have postponed our celebration in the name of reducing food wastage?”

Greg grinned, loving how formal Mycroft could make the gentle ribbing sound. “Nope,” he said. “This is an entirely separate day.” He nuzzled along Mycroft’s jawline for a moment before continuing. “Besides, I could see how much you enjoyed the gift giving. Hate to spoil that for you.”

“So considerate,” Mycroft murmured, turning towards Greg. “And yet you insisted Valentine’s chocolates are not to be shared.”

“Day-After-Valentine’s chocolates are different,” Greg said. “Besides, you don’t even like chocolate ginger.”

“True,” Mycroft replied. “It’s almost as though I considered your preferences in my purchases.”

Greg grinned. With any luck this debate would last until Easter and he could teach Mycroft about Day-After-Easter chocolate protocols.


	27. Time Sensitive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day as only Johnlock can do it.  
> For LadyTuesday.  
> Johnlock/fun/Valentine's Day/E rated (language)

“No, John,” Sherlock said firmly.

“Too late,” John replied. “I’ve already booked it.”

Sherlock dropped dramatically into his chair. “But why, John?”

John’s face barely changed, unless you counted the slight twist of a smile, which Sherlock did not. He’d done his best ‘I’m not whining, even though we both know I want to whine’ tone of voice, and added the extra flair to his flounce onto his chair, and still John wouldn’t change his mind.

“Because you agreed, Sherlock,” John said. The simple logic was infuriating and Sherlock ground his teeth as he bit out the words.

“That was before I started this experiment,” Sherlock said. “It’s time sensitive, John!”

“So is this,” John told him, crossing his arms. Sherlock tried not to notice how the fabric stretched across John’s biceps, but it was impossible. Honestly, now that they’d agreed to start ‘seeing each other’ as John put it (or ‘fucking whenever possible’ as Sherlock privately considered the arrangement) John was downright unreasonable. Using his muscle tone to scramble Sherlock’s brain should be an indictable offense.

“We could go tomorrow instead?” Sherlock suggested, hating how his voice rose at the end. As though he was asking permission, for goodness sake. He had stopped asking permission when he was seven. His father hadn’t understood the work all those years ago, and John clearly had no idea, either.

“No,” John said, his tone patient. “We are leaving in,” he raised his watch, “eight minutes.” A single glance down Sherlock’s body and up again, and he added, “No matter what you’re wearing.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, one long finger slipping into the tie of his dressing gown. “Even if it’s only…this?”

The dressing gown parted, and he knew the maroon fabric bracketed his pale skin gloriously. John’s eyes skated down, of course; he was an enthusiastic participant in the fucking, and Sherlock was fascinated at the amount of experimental behaviour John was prepared to endure in the name of sex research.

Sherlock waited, crowing delight in his head as John stepped forward, mouth dropping open. Sherlock felt his cock jump at the scrutiny and he stretched, deliberately jutting his hips out. Surely, John wouldn’t insist on them going out now. Not with Sherlock basically offering himself on a platter.

John’s breath skittering over his skin was like a wave of arousal, continuing on after the air stopped moving. Carefully, he spoke directly into Sherlock’s ear without so much as a brush of skin.

“Lovely as this might be, I’m not sure I’ll be able to concentrate if I haven’t eaten.”

The voice in Sherlock’s head faltered, then swore as John deliberately ran one hand down his chest, dancing fingers up his half hard cock until Sherlock’s hips kicked forward. He opened his eyes and glared up, knowing how smug John would look as he stepped back, arms crossed again.

“Seven minutes, Sherlock.”

“Happy bloody Valentine’s Day,” Sherlock muttered, knowing he looked awkward as he stood and strode across the room, trying to will his erection away, at least for a little while.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock,” John called, amusement still lacing his words.


	28. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Paialovespie.  
> From the prompt 'discovery'.  
> Mystrade/Established relationship

“Gregory?”

Jesus.

He might have been seven years old again, starting at the sound of his own name, heart pounding and sending adrenalin through his body. Greg just barely stopped himself diving under the bed; it was the stupidest of leftover instincts from his childhood, if you ignored his tendency to eat everything on his plate regardless of how hungry he was. Gripping his fingers tightly, Greg pulled in a deep breath, holding it until he thought his lungs would burst before letting it out slowly, his muscles quivering at the effort. The adrenalin would take a bit to dissipate, he knew that, but it didn’t make it easier to endure.

Before he was done, Mycroft’s head peered around the doorframe. Greg dropped his eyes, knowing his cheeks were bright with pink that betrayed his humiliation. He knew Mycroft would read the situation immediately, and could only hope he’d do what the few others had done when they discovered his shameful secret. Walk out and never mention it again. Allow Greg that tiny shred of privacy. Pretend it had never happened so they could live their lives without the knowledge between them that a grey haired copper pushing fifty was still doing this kind of thing.

“Hello,” Mycroft said, his voice quiet. He was still several steps from the bed, which told Greg two key things.

He knew this was important, and he wasn’t going to let it slide away to stand in the corner, an unacknowledged guest in their relationship.

Shit.

“Hi,” Greg whispered, the word barely able to fit past the lump in his throat.

“I didn’t realise this was a pastime you enjoyed,” Mycroft said. Greg didn’t speak. There was neither a question, nor an invitation, not really, so he waited. Maybe Mycroft would take the hint. Maybe…

“Would you tell me about it?”

Fuck.

Greg felt his expletives getting more and more obscene as they got deeper into this conversation. He breathed deeply. He could say no. They’d talked about this before, and he forced himself to remember other times Mycroft had honoured his requests to stop or to leave a question unanswered. He could see how carefully the request was framed, giving Greg plenty of space to deny it with few words, or even a shake of the head.

Maybe not this time, though.

Carefully, Greg reached out, picking up one small figurine. His fingers were bigger now, of course, but the curve of the metal was still familiar. He ran one fingertip over the bonnet, uneven surface running under his skin where time and disuse had weathered the enamel until it cracked and peeled, the metal underneath eventually rusting.

“This was mine,” he whispered, hardly able to shape the words. “When I was a child.”

A slight movement in his periphery was probably Mycroft nodding; Greg didn’t turn his head to check. He knew Greg’s childhood was generally off limits; he wouldn’t ask anything, allowing Greg to offer whatever he wanted.

“The rest I found on eBay,” Greg whispered. He waved one hand over the collection, the tiny scale cars in various states of repair. “I always wanted the whole set but we couldn’t…it didn’t happen.”

Mycroft eased closer, the step careful as he loomed larger in Greg’s view. “Would you like to tell me more?” he said. “Or I could leave you in privacy.”

Greg allowed the question to sit for three long breaths; his psychologist would be proud. “No,” he said finally, clearing a space, “you can stay.”


	29. The Right To Remain Gorgeous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Mariawasd, from this prompt:  
> Lestrade: STOP. This is the police! You're under arrest for being too cute. Now put your hands where I can hold them.  
> Mycroft, making exasperated sounds: *extends his hands*
> 
> Mystrade/Established/Silly fluff

“STOP. This is the police.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Must we…” he began, but the stern voice cut him off.

“You’re under arrest for being too cute. Now put your hands where I can hold them.”

The exasperated sounds were very un-Mycroft, but he couldn’t help it. Gregory’s voice might be serious but his eyes were dancing, and there was no way Mycroft could resist the impish expression on his face. With a final harrumph he extended his hands, shaking his head as Gregory’s fingers interlaced with his own.

“Is this really necessary?” Mycroft murmured.

“Definitely,” Gregory replied, using both hands to pull Mycroft in, wrapping his arms around Gregory’s waist before looping his own arms over Mycroft’s shoulders. “All I’ve done since you were gone is arrest actual bad guys.”

“I would suggest none of them planned to greet you quite in this manner,” Mycroft said. It was a relief to be here again after such a long trip. The confirmation of Gregory’s ongoing affection might be silly, but Mycroft was learning he liked silly, especially when it served to ease his anxieties.

“I would hope not,” Gregory replied, grinning as he leaned up. Mycroft was immediately transported to that in-between space he always occupied when Gregory kissed him. His mind slid offline, smoothly and without protest; it wasn’t quite the same as the effect of certain pharmaceuticals, but it allowed him to focus solely on the experience of Gregory. Nothing from his outside life bothered him, especially when Gregory was taking the lead like this, keeping things slow, exploring and opening to be explored.

“And I might hope,” Mycroft said, breathless after Gregory’s mouth parted from his own, “your own greeting would be somewhat more professional.”

Gregory snorted, a surprisingly endearing sound Mycroft privately adored. “I made one arrest in a literal crack house,” he said, “and she spat on me and broke Donovan’s nose.” He screwed up his nose briefly, but the moment it cleared his indulgent smile returned. “Unsurprisingly she was unable to tempt me away from you, gorgeous.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft protested, knowing his face would be growing pink. “You know how I respond to such terms of endearment.”

“I do,” Gregory replied, pressing his words into Mycroft’s jaw. “And I will use them against you to the fullest extent of the law.”

“Well,” Mycroft mused, knowing his gasp was audible as Gregory wandered across his skin, “I could probably be convinced. To follow the directions of a man of the law.”

“A man of the law,” Gregory repeated. The shape of his face changed where it pressed against Mycroft’s neck; he was smiling, the realisation sending a shiver down Mycroft’s spine.

“If you’re going to demand I follow your instructions,” Mycroft said, tightening his hands on Gregory’s waist, “perhaps it would be prudent to read me my rights.”

A hum pressed into his shoulder made Mycroft smile before Gregory stood up to meet his eyes.

“You have the right to remain gorgeous,” he said with a grin. “You do not have to say anything but it may decrease your pleasure if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in bed. Anything you do say may be repeated in the future.”

Mycroft’s smile widened as Gregory modified the Right to Silence on the fly. “If there is to be questioning,” he murmured, “I really should remove at least some of my clothing.”

“Agreed,” Gregory replied before he kissed Mycroft again.


End file.
